Stroking My Head with My Deception Stick
Someone has shut down the local shimmer
but not the police who thought
it was Sunday and so spent hours
arranging their long and pliant hair.
Constable Jacques is the best man I know
but even he won’t converse with the dead.
The dead are so vain and hungry—
they will straddle your mirrors and swallow
your oak trees with their huge elastic lips.
And then you hear the screaming, not to be found
within the dead, but rather in the tiny
black pot which holds the greater part
of our mass and the difficult
farm where all the hens are black
and black are the wheatfields through which
runs a black and silent wind. Thin teachers
explain to our children, if the farm is a burgeoning
snowglobe, then the screaming’s a legend, like glass.
: Heather Christle, in Third Coast (Fall 2006)
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