The moon was never made of shoelaces
but your spleen could very well
sneak out of your body at night
to follow its passion for origami, opera,
or rare meat. You probably wouldn’t even notice
until someone at a bar punched you in the gut
and their knuckles found your vertebrae’s grooves
and the message was sent from brain to tailbone
that to not have a hometown is a disadvantageous
situation to find yourself in when the family
roses are pulled from the ground.
They’ll probably prescribe memorization
or thermonuclear meditation when the truth of the matter
is that any way you position your bed in relation to the compass
destiny remains a crock of shit. The other crock is in the will
and it has never been a secret that the desire to end estrangement
wins three times out of seven. Statistics can prove the likelihood
of my knee finding your knee-pit in the middle of the night.
My scars are out of town at a storytelling convention
trying to coax a fervor from a haughty diphthong.
— Rachel M. Simon
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