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,
                                                                   you brute!
I'm sick of these
             incipient bits.

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