by Heather June Gibbons
sound like traffic on the interstate, open your mouth
and the smoke alarm cries wolf and everything
becomes a study in loss, just one more hotel soap
in a collection of hotel soaps. Search the cushions
for change and find the thread that tethers
you to your body, taut but anchored there.
Stare at it, fidget your scars, aren't they better
than grease-marks? Aren't they something?
So put your nose in the corner and count
out enough time for it to end. Calm the alarm
with a dishrag, stop the scuttle of inanimates.
Clear the debris of your dinner and all the
dog-eared evidence. Be static as a turbine,
photographed. Be a tinge of bleach in the water.
Listen to the wind just wail and wail as it rips
through scales, an elbow scraped across keys.
Last updated May 12, 2019