Out of System Transfer
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poetry (4221) rabbits (224) prose poem (5) noah wareness (1) flavour pairings (1)
all my Alien postcards wrapped in a fat blue rubber band, Ripley’s eyes rubbed out white and drawn back in ballpoint pen; your old Barbie with armpits full of cat hair I found in the heat vent the night I forced your dad’s window to look for bus change; a wooden spoon burned in half with a lighter; your red Lego astronaut stuck in your red candlestub; the fortune cookie slip we made fun of at the St. Paul St. house, how it said only family lasts; something saying how I found the Barbie and the hair separate
for Melanie The words are the power the words would destroy. Now it’s December, I wrote about this park already, the powder snow streaming over the walking paths, blowing in ribbons, billows, all torn kitecloth trailing, revealing in its traces the soft flank of the wind. It isn’t a sign. It’s not the wind’s mixed metaphor. The wind isn’t the snow’s; and nothing’s ours, too. Either way, now it’s March. On Highway 17, Emese calls them snow snakes. Our tires run them down. There’s nothing in this frail little
So in grade four, when listening sucked, we’d sneak Dragonlance books under our desks. How there’s three wizard guilds, distinguished by the pigment in their robes, their rigid faction moralities, and their chromatic totem moons. Good, neutral, and you-know-what. But all those common-ass herders and teamsters just figure Krynn’s got two moons. One ivory, one rust: whatever people see. That other moon, though, Nuitari? It knows what wizards really want. How red and white archmages can’t even tell it’s there,
Out of System Transfer