The Folly of Mercutio in a Pacifist Town

The emperor moth battles the emperor
penguin, 2 to 1 knockout, no
terms, no surrender. Darwin
officiates—aren’t we all charming
in the ballroom where everyone
under twenty texts
without looking at their hands,
some literal synecdoche. Fluid
cyborg semiotics lost on poor
emperor at his victory
banquet where we squander
the horizon as if it were
devalued currency, bringing it in
wheelbarrows, trading it for shot glasses
that say “I ♥ the Emperor” and
drinking cheap gin in daring rounds.
Meanwhile we are navigating ever
more backwards towards a
musky gray that barks at us and
pees ominously on the banquet
tables. What can be done? The
emperor moth longs for icebergs;
the lolling beaten penguin’s
heart seizes up with thoughts of
August’s sizzling porch lights.

Tweet
Copyright © 2011 Phoebe Reeves All rights reserved
from American Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission