by Margot Schilpp
Heartsound: thunk and paddle
up the stream of appetitte that cloaks
me in sleep. In the split
of my personality, there’s you and
everything else, all the parallelograms
and missiles hiding in the silos.
Or deep, way down in the water,
you’ll find the torpedoes, their mischief
and fickle heads, thinking
about the kill, the kill. If
our nights together aren’t to be, why
play awake during the day?
Duck your head if you’re too tall
to enter the familiar
nothing of regret. You’ll fit.
You’ll fit nicely. I’m going
back to origami and the alphabet,
where order reigns. I’m going
back to original, where at least
I’ll have a sense of humor.
This life splits me:
one half, red. The other,
blue. Very red. Very blue.
But I can conjure. I can cast. I can bring
you in. The weeds in my garden
have it all over the perennials.