Laressa Dickey



Once I could fly and then couldn’t I fly. Where the preceding
view of the tree, which sees only my forehead and right eye
from this angle, sitting as I am—not at this moment, in fact,

The posture that keeps me bent has something to do with
this business of man/woman, this way of believing
and not-believing, which is apparently simultaneous, where
what is not can still become song, or sung—which is what
we used to say didn’t we

I fit myself under tables.
Fit myself under myself, fit under fit.
I fit fire, fit under table fire myself, thanks
for asking. About fire, about myself, under tables,
like breath really. Like fire breath, close
in fact, to dragons, and secretly we all like dragons,
under tables, where they certainly might fit.

Pulling the skin off the lip, the right lower lip,
blanketed like it is, which is like my mother
thinking pollen’s blowing around already, but it’s not;
now blood on the lip and now, salt.

When the flowerpot unravels
When the circle holds no bottom
When dead plant leaves crush into carpet
tell me again about the common housefly

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