She looks like something poured,
melting and dribbling into every
room, back legs shaking, it could break
your goddamn heart, it could
make your mouth unhinge,
lock your neck in a coronary floor gaze,
the way she creaks and revolves around the blanket
reminds me of the Earth and me slow circling,
dancing around ourselves every twenty-three hours
and fifty-six minutes. She looks at me
like I’m tossing paper wads through invisible flame,
praying for an incinerated resolution.

If the old girl could talk she’d say, “The length of
a television commercial is the right time to die, you spend
your whole life preparing for one minute and television
commercials are only resurrected for a short time.” I want
to lay down next to her but I’m already there,
the circle she hurts inside, a fleshy gill that breathes
in our head, makes our lives unhinge, tongues hang out,
blessings cut themselves short. Every day
some dream we prepare for, some fence rusts.
Pace in a circle and the ground opens up.
Dig for things to make us humans again.

©1999 Joshua Minton

Creative Commons License photo credit: RO-BOT

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