i.
there is a section of the
p.i.e which slices through
what must have once been
one open plain & is now two.
(i am trying to cough up a
metaphor in two parts, but
man, am i bad at fractions,
so, no more math. instead:)
picture a red car rolling down
a long stretch of gravel. if you
cannot, hum a lullaby. yes, that
one. see? it will feel the same.
ii.
so there is one road & two halves
& in the red car there is a woman &
a body who once grew in her belly
& then emerged like fist through wall
(she never lets the body forget that)
& the body peers out of the window
with the kind of curiosity you & i
must have once shared & now sits
tucked like gum behind childhood beds,
(the kind flattened by the world's fist)
& says, mama, look at the birds,
& the woman is driving, but trying, so
she says, yes, honey, birds, & the body
asks, why are they only on the left field,
(out of left field)
& the woman looks out & through
the-body-who-once-was-part-of-her &
sees a flurry of snow falling like wing
beats across a green field, & says, huh.
iii.
in the weeks to come, the body
will ask the same question like a
magician with only a single trick, or
a trick looking for its single magician,
(for a trick cannot be a trick
unless it is known to one,
at least one)
& the woman will crunch down on
the gas & pull hats out of the body
of a rabbit: (a) that's where their family is;
(b) that's where the worms are;
(c) i'm sorry, baby, i don't know
(what else to tell you);
(d) for god's sake i will stop this car &
you can get out & ask them your damn self—
iv.
& the body will look away & to
the right, into the empty field
running beside the car like
the world's quietest dog, like:
(a) a dog that has gone to outer space;
(b) a dog in a world of people without ears;
(c) a dog that hasn't stopped playing dead;
or (d) a dog with its throat punched clean
through by the fist of the world,
the kind you & i do not talk about,
the kind of cruel that exists only when
you begin to call a body a fraction
(of yourself).
