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)