by Shannon Burns
to whom does the sky b'long?
I'm doing a re-enactment
of JFK's assassination where
I just throw a rock at your head. It is
for no other reason. Why else
would I do these things
in my hometown the dumbass
wannabe gangster I grew up with
calls the night sky
From where does my drive
to succeed come?
My parents I think sometimes
are the tiniest people
on earth, they are so
mine. My brother a grape,
a little stone. And my love's pale face,
good common wedding cake.
But where does cool air
come from? On whom do the tongues
of fire rest?
What's a smoothie? Is it this?
Some head replaces the sun.
I hate him, someone says.
The temperature dips and spikes. We collapse
and recover, and look up. Nothing happens.
A pain erupts in my stomach. Perhaps
somebody's head has replaced your stomach? you say
and we laugh nervously.
We slap and blame each other for the new sun.
It's cold and the air is chalky. I lay open
my purse and let the elements come in.
That head looks familiar, you say. Shit,
you're getting used to it.