Fort Not
       

I'm not really that kind
of smart. Sometimes I can hardly.
I hear a little bell
and a film gets all over.

Twice yesterday, actually,
the imagined consensual entered.
Held onto for a long time. A shriek
parade was ordered by the county.

The gender I wanted to become
was actually more of an arm
movement—simultaneously
strong, accurate, elegant, lilting

and weaponized. Scrolling white text
opened doors to previous anticipation.
The opening credits came on last,
all puffed out with options.

I did this very gentle tapping
to activate the month in my skull.
I watched some massage-related porn
for purely relaxational purposes,

locked violets and crystals
in the gun safe. Mold bloomed
on the ceiling in the museum
of best practices. Everyone got sour.

If it's ok to cry
in this widening, groaning hall,
I'll do it after I sign
for the deliveries.

The smallest muscles in my hands
are hard at work
generating a closeness to god
that is rare in these parts.

When I end the American movie
and it rains all over the Puget Sound,
will you shepherd me
to the opposite of safety. Place

one hand at the small
of my wreck. Pour out
every single refreshment.
There's so many savings

and so little time.
Sally wore a bathing suit.
Nobody's home
at the Holiday Inn Express.

The scenic route drowned
a long time ago.
Didn't you know? Water froze
in the generation.

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Copyright © 2018 Emily Skillings All rights reserved
from Fort Not
The Song Cave
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission