We expected our entertainment to save us.
It won’t. Not between these hills,
under these watchful eyes;
the oak scattered across the sky,
shatters in my hands.
Take the goose by the neck, flex.
Now we have a little more in common;
I also streamed the whole series
in a weekend, then rewatched each episode
thirteen times while trying to fall asleep.
On the counter, leavening sourdough—
our loneliness consumes.
We hold hands and between us
a tangerine the size of a tumor,
the skin, wet with afterbirth,
feels like reins. Take
into consideration the time
trace around my shoulders and back, then
announce : freckle, mole, or bite.
It’s okay if you bite, I don’t mind.
I love to waste
time with you. The problem is, though,
when we put it on the scale
of grasshopper wings it doesn’t balance.
I’m losing my grip. Glory burns softly
around the edges of our feet
and we stay home and watch the entire feast.
What’s the point of joy if not again. Again. Again.
Daniel J Flosi sometimes thinks they are an apparition living in a half-acre coffin within the V of the Mississippi and Rock Rivers. Daniel is a poetry reader at Five South, and is the founder/EiC of Black Stone / White Stone. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Funicular Magazine, ELJ- Scissors & Spackle, Inklette, The Good Life Review, and Zero Readers and many more. Drop a line @muckermaffic
image: MM Kaufman