California

Forget your life.

Okay I have.

Lay something down that is unlike you:
Sold boat, Italian song.

I'm losing my head over this:

this is what the doll said when you pulled its head
from its body;

all the girls laughed.

I'll move to California. I should
go alone. I'll go

with the knowledge of fake
snow. I'll ask my father to bring me.

I liked it better
when my fingers
were people.

I should drive away from my life.

If a man comes through town on his way to California, l will go with him. I
don't care who he is:

if his wife is pretty, fine;
if he is returning to her, fine.

A man should be going there today,

at least one man; this city
is so big.

When I'm in California I'll go to the beach
and cry. All of the seagulls will crowd

around me and force my mouth open
with their wings. One

will bring me a fish. I won't be able to leave them.

My fingers
aren't people
anymore.

I forgot to train them. They were over watered. They drowned.

There isn't a steeple, no alderman discussing the loss.

That was a hand-church;

that was my folly.

Copyright © 2009 Jen Denrow All rights reserved
from THERMOS
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission