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In My Head
—Charles Simic
Go inside a poem,
howling Americas and purple
jelly lips in a neon store.
Inside of me, there are vines
of tangled jungle, Osmosis Jones
and fungus, ten years
of gum lining my stomach
like an ulcer, enameled layer.
Go inside my blood stream, watch
molecules spark like flint,
become a piece of more.
What’s inside you is inside me,
bits of flotsam rising and pumping.
Inside of me is Squeaky Clean, the talking
parrot, a shop full of dust and milkshakes.
Go barefoot inside an A&P and stand tall,
watch the silver scaled fish swim downstream.
Inside of me, there are writings on the wall.
In Action
I think of the man in the woods,
his words of fat bees and the under-bellies
of planes. I imagine him in his hammock,
notebook
in lap, the thick smell of sap around him.
He forms in my head, that familiar face
like the morning light. I come down the stairs
of his cabin with two tall glasses of lemonade.
I cross the field to where he lies. His beard
is short, his neck browned beneath the sun,
yet he looks peaceful, wise.
I remind him of buttered bagels
and the taste right of New Jersey.
He says, “I’ve forgotten those who’ve forgotten
me.”
I speak of shells with pink insides.
He teaches me how to play chess.
I remind him of where he came from
and he reminds me of where I am going.
Genna Sarnak is currently a student at Clark
University in Worcester, Massachusetts. She's
had poems featured in Up and Under: the QND
Review, Baby Clam Press, and The Apprentice
Writer. Poetry, and her sister, are her life. |
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