Meg McKeon



Open up my body and tell me
secrets are two imperatives
and they’re urgent. I’m
about to make a decision
and you’re part of it: make

certain I’ve said all the right
things to the last woman on
earth. Something profound
like: your boots remind me
of sex and your leaded prints

are saying something creative
in grass. Lemme ask you
something, woman, you look
like you’ve got the skinny –
the wam-bam, even without

sparkle, sans tulle – Where
did all the dresses go
and mostly: who’s mad?
I see you’ve got some bones
there – clap them together:

new dance, old song.
Our ribs are stacking
uncomfortably, now –
wrong in their placing.
A bobby pin on the ground

tries to hold tight the wobbly
parts of my sidewalk.
This museum ain’t new,
different, just.



Today, my head popped off,
rolling away in a series of dull
thuds, my hair making a sffft sound
on the pavement with each rotation.
You picked it up for me, catching
it with a rewound bowling movement,
letting it settle in the crook of your arm.
I am reluctant to believe that hippos
are really that aggressive, something
in their roundness and split faces.
You tell me this kind of thinking
will leave me with too many errant
dumbbells. I am sure you mean
romantically, apocalyptic tonality.
When you found my body,
it was under a maple tree, digging
its fists into the dirt, pulling up
large pebbles and gesturing
at the air with its neck
and shoulder parts,
somehow in song.


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