Mostly it’s wondering if the deposit has cleared
and will the chicken last another night
while our attenuated dream-selves
perform regularly-scheduled acts of erotic spontaneity
and inhabit the bodies of the one-percent.
The neighbors don’t seem to do much except smoke and occasionally
order pizza at 11 p.m. while up the street,
between the Anabaptists and the aging hardcore bassist/IT guy/dad,
the female bagworm moth dies immediately after the act of mating,
her larvae to burrow into her corpse/cocoon and emerge in spring (the world
in spring: slow-lidded, incredulous, the half-thawed river scabbed
with ice) through which desire, being deciduous, moves
mainly backward, while grief is holographic and moves
forward by twos. Certain constants remain: water will always
seek its level; the child asks, not unreasonably, How can a fish poop
if it doesn’t have a butt? the storehouse of the body, by turns
gutted and razed, as the rednecky/hot survivalist guy
on the Preppers show shrugs at his stockpile of freeze-dried nutritional paste
like, It’s not tasty, but it’ll keep you alive.
Robyn Art
Latest posts by Robyn Art (see all)
- Might I But Moor Tonight in Thee - June 9, 2017