I wanted drugs and chose language—cannot get much
Nearer to law. Dreamt A, Dreamt B, climbed the fence
Fraying east where air is personal, an urge to imitate
A closing sound.
The problem with travel is
The body, which fact-checks all encounters then wrings itself
From record.
Happiness
As a border between yourself and others
——————
Ketchup dumped on a pile of saltines
In the grill at the park
Like a response to a question. Even the crows keep their distance.
Common to conflate the body traveling at high speeds with love. It happens
At the gym, the pumpkin patch—no one can kneel
Without fatigue landing feathery across the shoulders. Their cars
Shivering in lots.
On the floor in a circle, TV clicked off: back then, if you had something to say, you wrote it
On a slip and dropped it through the slot into a box that got
Thrown away once it was full. You felt lighter—more air—more mobile. You joined a team,
Threw seeds for the birds and balls for the dogs and children. Everyone took
Care of each other. Even if we were dead, we all had five dollars.
******
And if you weren't dead, you were working
Thirty years later
In another world
"My spirit slumped on horseback rides cleanly through mesh"
///\\\
Walking down the street at midnight, dipping chicken in sauce, I was willed awake.
The grate below me: hot and open, old and pure.
Sleep was wet. Perpetually. Dim and mossy and moving. On the bed sheets, stains running out of
small, popped shells.
Dangerous to grow tired where one isn't wanted. Rinsed. Pack of tablets fizzing on the table.
I saw what I thought was my jacket hung off a telephone pole and almost fainted.
Would venture to say the back of the head, in holding visual properties of the understanding of
"one's whole life," has equaled my orphan portrait
A source toward meals charged in blankets, warehouse bottomless at the base of a hill
In oval frame
<<<>>>
I wanted
To shop. Felt sporty as I stabbed my fork.
The pie contained just five ingredients: sugar, flour, water, eggs and dates—six if you count
whipped topping. When it finished, I craved lemon rinds.
When I dress myself, I provide ledges
and landings, an explanation for my face. From it.
I was fabulous high on a hill, presiding like a palm over
My pending transactions. Charred, large eggs trembling west
Caught on the lip of display
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Lily Duffy's poems have previously appeared in Bone Bouquet, Yalobusha Review, Horse Less Review, Dusie, smoking glue gun and TENDE RLOIN, among other journals. Originally from Maryland, she now lives in Colorado, where she works in marketing and public relations. With Rachel Levy, she co-edits DREGINALD.
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