Magician's Assistant Sawed in Two
       

From the fountain of drool that is dog
and the languor of bathrobes.
From the humility of cereal and fall weather
and the starless refrigerator light
where I stand, hero, god in underwear
From where I ride in the car's worn lap,
passing into one future, then another,
like the magician's assistant sawed in two.
From the pillow which anchors my dreams
like a rope of paper dolls on fire.
From telling my students it was Wittgenstein
or Heidegger or quantum mechanics
that said anything we can imagine is possible, is.
From tubs of old soap,
the ankles of my future children,
tented ears of my childhood cat.
From the suburbs of rust, houseplants
that won't die, and my boyfriend who will.
From the great assembly of mushroom and wood,
the metronome of tennis courts, electrocardiograms
and my voice steadied by wine.
From the surprise of fingers touching down,
delivered on a bad day to the lowland of my back,
and the chair pulled closer to mine inevitably,
between mouthfuls of food,
we hurtle through a moment that has only
wind and open windows.
To be remembered for loving avocados
and fog. For loving four legs and not two.
To communicate in the secret language of central air.

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Copyright © 2014 Jen McClanaghan All rights reserved
from River Legs
Kore Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission