That’s too
easy isn’t it?
Just get
enough tin foil and let the sun do the rest.
Be subtler, that’s
what you’re saying, right?
Should I
exhale passion?
Like the
broken voice that falters every note,
but slays
the soul with frightening precision.
Or speak in
words drawn out like wire?
Caressed
with enough force to make the metal flow freely.
Shall I be
imagination run amok in a cardboard box?
The
mastermind mystery of darkened hallways?
Soaking up
sanity in the walls,
transforming
nothings into anythings.
An untamed
tangle of possibility in an empty room?
I’m sorry—
Right now
there’s nothing.
I’m all the
brilliance of cold soup and floppy noodles left at the bottom.
Unredeemable,
even with infusions of steaming broth.
I’m all the
life of a dried up moth swept into the corner.
Please,
just forget
the mote of brightness you sought,
leave me in
this bed, or suffocate me in the sheets
if you can’t
bear the slow dissolution.
If my life
could’ve spun apart in a whirlwind I’d have chosen that fate—
even flaking
rust has a movement, a triumph,
however
sloppily made, a signature;
but me?
I’m
pickling,
in brine and
bouillon
not even
staining this bowl.
