TracesI am the empty blue sky, left behindwhen your colored scarves weavetogether, tendrils of texture, tapestriesalive with the scent of honey andthe taste of brown sugar, mistakenmany a time for your hair,which I can still see now--and still smell. And I am the calendar, gorging myselfon the days without youthat wedge themselves into my mouth,so many slices of cake; I cant movefrom the weight. Without youI am becoming a bitter Sunday,laced with vinegar, dreadingthe cold rise of the Monday dawn;purple and red roots pull me underneaththe field of kaleidoscope glass--where dreams slice at me as I vanish.There is a pinprick of light in the distance.You can stretch pockets to twice their sizeand fit mountains in there, mountainsof honeycomb and magic dust,sunflower petals and dandelion fluff.Your laughter is made of helium--I cant help it, I start to float.Your touch heals, the warmth in your eyessoothes me, scent of herbal tea. Theny
my head is spinningI am dizzy.And you are not even in the room.
new skinI grow slowly.Every time I sprout,you cut me off.
FelixThere was a knock at the door. Hank only half-heard it. He was focused on the television, and a news report of a rich couple who paid a scientist to change their pet cat into a human. The Hendersons have not released the details of how this transformation occurred, but they did confirm that Dr. Dolan will publish her information.There was another knock. Coming! Hank said, watching for a millisecond more before switching off the TV and leaping to his feet.He pulled the door open. On the other side was a man in dark glasses and a black suit. The Employment Agent.We have something for you, he said in a mechanical voice. The agents were cyborgs, installed with robotic parts. It was somewhat ironic that they were given the task of finding jobs for human beings, who didnt live nearly as long or work nearly as well.The Agent was holding out a folder.Hank took it, a
NumbersNumbersI could not stop seeingparallels between wordsand human flesh.A poem that could rise up,hunching its back, aconcentration camp victimwith bare ribs; thislanguage rolls like the ridgesand dips of a spine, stickingup through paper skin.And theyre using the peaksas an abacus, counting themas they die.
ConversationDo you ever wonder about the random things people purchase sometimes? I ask the cashier.No, she says, Not usually.I nod, thinking it would become routine after awhile.Though I do wonder why men buy womens thongs.My eyes widen.It just seems like something you would buy for yourself, you know?