What She’s Become
– after reading “Not The Furniture Game” by Simon Armitage
Her hair is gold—
fish in a shattered mirror
and her ears are discarded
snail shells that have become too much to carry
and her eyes are corrals
with the gates left open
and her smile is a kite tail
snagged on a tree
and her tongue is summer
cottage flypaper
and her song is a robin’s egg
fallen to the ground
and her reasons are ice skates
with broken blades
and her shoulders are a bridge
in an earthquake
and her arms are consolation ribbons
and her elbows are check marks
that tick the answers only he wants to hear
and her hands are worn geisha fans
and her fingers are capsized kayaks
and her ribs are rows of yeses
and her belly-button is the smallest part
of a question
and her skin is a map
of the way home
and her hips are a wishbone
that won’t break
and her legs are the towers of a sieged castle
and her sinews are shorted Christmas lights
and her calves are hamsters
swallowed by snakes
and her heels are slingshots
catapulting her somewhere she doesn’t want to go
and her footprints are misplaced detour signs
and her dreams are unmanned lighthouses
and her promises are shooting stars
and her sigh is a continent
creeping into the sea.
(first published in Blood Orange Review)