Poem By Joyelle McSweeney
This is the body of,
waiting to turn on.
graced with a little tremor,
a little-known form, a fibrous hook,
a flimsy lever that makes the jar work
a lever and a clasp
:voila. The pathetic filofax
unfurls, the owl describes;
on air; makes an apse; lopes left
off the phonepole, woodenly.
we rise above the wind park,
our whorled fossil, pinned open.
our emergency kit
holds aspirin. digitalis. adrenalin-in-in.