I have strangled a pineapple
to mute a hard drink,
screamed along
with screeching afternoon light
to meet the devil’s eyes.
I have knocked
my bright, ravenous beak
against a man’s—
in the rearview mirror
our Ferris Wheel limbs.
But today, the January sun
exposes my apathy.
Hazy, undercooked egg,
thin droplets
like preteen bras.
A woman crouches
under a black umbrella, reading
a parking meter.
I crouch on a museum’s brick ledge
like a cat, my knees—
magnified Cheerios.
I exhale
in pencil,
caress tomorrow
covered in chalk dust and hair.
My fingers
a skyline of silvery knives,
my body
a city made of wax
I light at random
until my bones and muscles are a dial tone,
a cool and clean surface others dance angels on
markless.
The day’s orange doesn’t fill out its skin—
sunken in, dried up.
It’s waited too long
for prying fingers
to incise, still-warm blood.
The hours lie
enjambed.
Click here to read Karolina Zapal on the origin of the poem.
Image by Hanna Hatsevich, licensed under CC 2.0.
