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Thursday, April 26, 2018

22

The Woman Covered with Mink and Smudges




It’s my job 
to wear a fur stole and appear impatient.
It’s also my job
to drive up and open the carriage door 
for the irritated old lady. 

Of course, 
it’s not really a carriage. 
Each object 
is a story written in a script so small
it appears to form a solid. 

Of course, 
it’s not really a job.
Becoming 
only takes a second,
as most living things know. 
The changes 
in weight and bone structure take conviction,
but on the plus side 
there are many smooth openings.
That kind of softness
requires attitude but very little work. 

If need be,
if you can’t use your hands like a net to contain them,
we can curl up in the sawdust
while our cavities firm and cool.
No matter what seam remains open, though,
we always have to be ready. 
If we hear movement at night,
 
we have to untwist and step off the porch unfinished.
Shoot into the air. 
Give warning. 
It’s our job to guard the parcel.
It’s our becoming.
We can’t wait until we’re complete enough to aim.
As long as the gun goes off,
someone out there drops and slumps over something. 

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