Not Really Medial, A Moraine -- Joanna Fuhrman
I don't need to touch that particular anthropomorphic
cantaloupe to imagine the young man's mind, tender
as a number in a poem about roofing. With him, I am,
that girl in droopy pigtails, pretending to drown
in her best friend's swimming pool, bubbles
floating to the surface like a color-saturated
cartoon where no one can die or bleed.
Who says a minor petal is any less devastating
than a major truck? Can't they see
the drama in feeling things from the outside-in:
a clear glass owl's eye splitting light
into a multiplex of shreds?
Listen-- the piano's
a spider crawling my leg.
My nose, pressed up against the glass.
The buffalo's heroic connotations
close to obscene. A red sweater too big
to not sink in.
Oh dear Monster-Truck Derby of the soul!
Lasso somethin' up,
I'm sick of these