The way a drop
       

of shortening dissolves into batter,

small doesn't wash out—

Legs,
or starfish

made of coal-shaped rocks,
waver and magnify as if underwater.

A baby into a snowsuit,

turn myself inside out

coarse gravel before breaking into individual pebbles

Some things constant

white hair,

Occupation: butcher

A chalkboard. yellow squeeze toy. a vest of mental shingles. an open chink, gusts,
grass, fold like a Chinese fortune wheel.

"You think I'm an insect, ok, Then you think I'm a monster. You think I'm a
monster? It's not like I ever did anything to you. What did I do?"

An only tree: cold now. not anymore, sycamore

like the leaves on a vine wrapping around and around. the stalks mostly dry brown, touch
lightly so as not to dislodge the delicacy from their stems

in the steam of this fungi is it amnesia I'm tracking?

like a death? every time you forget something>

re

visionist

stunned. the idea that>

or liar?

self-consciousness stream you little playwright::::::
lo and behold, flow/flower/flour. like a=====leaf his voice floats to the ground below my
mind,

we are physical bodies so gravity rules

                                                        loud as pencils puncturing the air 'forgive and forget'

        and the leaf and its accompaniment, larvae

                                                                                crawl alive

threatening shadow

        I retain

               
try to pull something off
the plank—speechless except for the (tongues of) Shabbat candles

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Copyright © 2018 Shira Dentz All rights reserved
from how do i net thee
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission