The Identity in My Crisis
       

This last meal could not have been my only palette,
could not have been my only easel—
This last sentence could not have been
the practitioners floating in my head,
flowing into yours, my only eugenics,
my only criss-cross,
my only everything, except your match
in the last whip and crack,
my medium circus, my vaudeville campaign
slurring perfect injunctions, were I ever to slur again—
The Genius Dress was far too small,
a random pie far too gone,
too eaten am I to be holding on
to a product I conduct in the language of fathers,
"We are drunkishness, bric-a-brac, torn saddle, backlash."
This immersion has made me a model
for your captivity digest, a cavity
just as clean as we birthed from a hole, far ago,
an embryo buried in the roundest tree hollow,
this slanted night, this aptly-divided radio sleep
on lovely knees, unwilling to burden
our last diorama nestled inside you, a pear tree.

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Copyright © 2012 Amy King All rights reserved
from I Want to Make You Safe
Litmus Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission