Some lines seem destined for the nearest landfill
—the way my name, when I type the wrong keys,
becomes “Ant.” I feel like an ant these days,
lugging my giant crumb to some great sand-hill,
dumping it, and trudging off for more.
I wonder where my good old-fashioned brain went?
It didn’t fit my head, like the attachment
I bought second-hand for my vacuum cleaner.
You can’t do much good with a bad connection—
part A fits into part B, no exceptions,
or you’re screwed. There’s no great adapter
to plug into, turn on the juice, the power
and the glory. Forever and ever, we survive,
trying dead sockets till something sparks alive.
previously published on ZinkZine, an online literary magazine.
If you are reading this
it is due to an error,
an oversight, or some otherwise
unprecedented act on the part
of the Management.
blame it on the Moon
Do not be alarmed if
you hear a voice you are not accustomed to,
or if mention is made of subjects
out of your ordinary purview,
“those stubborn bloodstains”
or if unfamiliar territory is mapped
intricately and with candor.
that Moon, she brings—
Comfort yourself with the fact that
if not blood, then at least—
you will soon be returned
to your regularly scheduled programming,
“sorry, sorry, sorry”
with the requisite words from Our Sponsor.
Unless, of course, you prefer
To follow me away to the roof
hair curled to frame the face
to watch the white disk turn two-thirds
Lillian Gish on film, 1915
mottled sepia, then charcoal, then black,
then shyly bare her sharp white face entire.
previously published in Prairie Schooner