Is there really something?
You can die like a poet
Head in the oven
Metalled bone on the ceramic
Body in the atmosphere-
People can too fly.
Or like a starlet
Fireflies drowned in gin and good bourbon
Waterlogged, unseasonably hot.
Little dog, blue dog, blue eyed, rather
You followed him, instead.
Stomp on it. The patterns of the bottom of your shoe
On flesh, dirt, silk stains
Putrid violet, graveled fingernails
Flowers that aren’t flowers anymore.
Six little legs
lead me to the tree in which you sit
Six million more take you away.
Go like me. Go like mine.
feathers are locks of hair
Unpickled vegetables in the cellar
And your teeth haven’t bitten since you left
Rubber, leather, rather
Smaller things, quieter than before
Indigestible raw material
Elk skin and grass and tree bark.
Or not on purpose at all
There is destiny in things that fall
And grace in misdirection and error.
If you really have long toenails
Then why do you need a shovel?
Christine Neacole Kanownik is founding editor/curator of The Electric Pumas, a poetry and digital media series. You can find her work in such places as: The Huffington Post, jubilat, EOAGH, H_NGM_N and The Poetry Project Newsletter. She lives in Brooklyn.