in the exam hall we hold pens like guns—
scouts entering forests, arrows half-nocked.
how do I parade this machine of a feeling as
the bus nearly slams into an unflinching crowd.
as it does, a cow crosses the road, and people walk
wristcuffed. there is smoke in our wallowing—
rising from beds pulling an omelet over bread
like a blanket to sleep longer in. a glass of tea
in the canteen, sometimes two. in a city of ash
I sip slowly a tea of my own. if a glass of milk
then a memory of the cow crossing the road.
when i bathe I laugh with soap in my eye—
you really thought you could keep your eyes
open through the process, didn’t you?
it’s just about the tea and then a glass to drink it from
a table to keep it on and a face to look at as I sip slowly.
the crowd brings its own rain, smelling of brimstone
and feeling of fire. then the face to look at holds out
a hand— I let ice melt in the heat of its palm
like a parade waning away in a test of freedom.
first published in Glass Mountain
Reviews
No reviews yet.