The Cyst

The Cyst

Forever we are broken up.
Two equivalent halves,
our edges lined with
a delicate film,
like a sheet of detergent
pasting rainbows onto
cups and dishes.
It keeps our symmetry together,
while the stifling atoms
keep our contents under pressure.

The languid spikes line up on
lawns of green,
greedily soaking up the little
kiddies’ water, but the phantom ghouls
in short polka-dot dresses with
paper bags over their heads
pay the kiddies five bucks to cut their hair.

Against an untrimmed hedge
bursting leaves from its seams,
white triangles fold up and
flap against the teardrops,
shuffling aside loose dust
as our tight-fit heels click
against the sidewalk.

We march toward our screens
with every ascent and descent
of that big bright light bulb—
the grey hatch work lays
a grid over our bodies,
fast asleep from all that anesthesia,
under our blankets,
each piece plotted out into
golden spirals.

But it is not always this way.
Above the clouds, these atoms get
dizzy, and drop to the ground
like birds shot out of the sky,
and bite the dirt with gravity.
Stitches unravel, and release
our wet little burdens
into the silent vacuums the atoms
left behind them.

Beneath the blue suffusion,
all the marbles collect and
reciprocate with our flesh,
urging it toward our center.
Time runs back,
our heads forget whatever we learned,
and our limbs drop off
and shrivel like dead leaves,
curling up
until the meter hits zero.

Before conception,
we are a chemical signal
skipping down each vertebra,
carrying an idea in a plastic bag,
unopened cleaner
to use before the expiration date.

Venus is this close to the sun
only every 3,000 years.
We exchange set amounts
so flawlessly.
No questions.
No exceptions.
I went to the grocery store
and bought a pair of scissors,
because I cannot wait that long.

© 2016