a woman sat atop the glossy bench,
and I averted my eyes like a wild thing,
glimpsed myself in a shopwindow
without a spark of recognition
until it all came rushing in,
there and back again
from that widening gyre where
synapses crackle and fly like fireworks
— oh, this is me, now.
ragged and composed, yes.
now, this is me. oh —
shining like some newly-minted anthem,
(we fought for this)
fizzing like the sea of the flapper’s fluted glass
(we drink to this).
lapwing cacophony, a twiggy nest
in the branches initially beyond my reach.
sandwiches as sacraments; prayers like butterknives.
the crooked man with a limp
rushes ahead to open the door wide,
and i, fumbling, sashay inside.
the biography of a kindred spirit
is lonely, on clearance — $2.51.
coins jingle then nestle in my palm:
a shoddy imitation of the solar system.
the universe abounds in a teacup
but constrained, maimed.