Set 23, 2014
Engineering, of all things
“Singing in hard wind / Ceaselessly;” “I don’t like you anymore,” she told her. Just because my man can trace your jaw doesn’t mean he can draw, but wow can he count the hairs on your other cheek, given time, your leave, and a staple wire stretched out. I will talk to this teacher because yes, granted, you can’t have rust in the refugee box, but tuna’s no reason to embarrass anyone in the morning assembly. Like your mother says, talking to them does nobody any good—Kathleen, least of all—for the gesture opens up your “narrow hands” to close encounters of the unrequited kind, unpaid loans, a heart. I’m still here, Ma’am, because that child called my youngest by name, then—having drawn her attention—shut the screen on her face. Not only do I like it, Mish, I can kiss this Elsa portrait! Not only is the scaffolding less imposing, it’s also less sad. The semi- / dignity.  Taking comfort in the last syllable of “dismantle” which folds in the dark, not rocking (that’s trite), just, you know, waiting by the door for the next knock, someone calling for lessons: “put this on top of that; must be some clanging right about now, right . . . here.” For who can close this with care.