KMA Sullivan



since no two moments are the same
I decide to cut a carpenter’s pencil
or maybe I’ll watch
the movement of greens
thread and balloon flowers
a seed pod
I’d like a tomorrow without constraints
the grace of insect architecture
a paper wasp nest
so much becomes clear from a distance
why do I press my face to the glass
I pray I will be faithful
but coffee spills over my pants
like a mechanical arm reaching for a purple rabbit
I insist on my right to exist
with or without a baseball bat
a repurposed machine




cereal bars, a stand-in for affection
me, a placeholder for something better
that I tether myself to someone so careless
with the hearts of others when mine dissolves
in milk renders me unrecognizable
to friends, my rearview mirror

a wallowing no one has been able to sound
you are fascinated by the way hair grows
on the knuckle of your big toe
if I threw a pebble, a piano, myself
into your watery mouth would offerings
ever sink far enough to gather?

like the karst under Mountain Lake
your holes are hidden and shifting
people cast mattresses, trash, bags of cement
into the lake to block the drain of summer
but only movement of the earth itself
can stop this emptying

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