| Place its toothpicked pit in water, watch the grist of its insides grow. Witness its populous bloom, honeycombed with rough. Its cobblestones grip the heart in its mitt, a closed fist thickened and gritty as silt. The swamp of the plumb beat adamant as weeds. The dish of which is salted by complexities or cries. It is a house in which we cannot live, the quiver on the arrow we cannot launch. It grows late over Nevada as we watch. Strikes its gullies: we grow burnt as a moth. Mimics a sleep of archives and the small lies all forget. Mimics all laughter broken by the time it leaves the mouth. With its moving parts, its chimes, its gleam, it muddies our archways, lying low, gives off noise and steam; its mechanics clear the fence. It must be wooed. Must be quieted. Hush. It must be soothed. Has a snag. Has a bleed. A drape. Flaps awkwardly, at its edges, a heron. At its center, a wide bottom perfect with fish. Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Militello. Used with permission of the author. |
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