August Poem-A-Day: Day 31 (two for Tuesday)
A dwelling. A "'tween" where there is no sense,
only a dome. The hook of a tender spot houses
blood cells, little red appaloosas. Floes around
the cinnamon trees dilly-dally, hot and conscious.
The opening's jowls, so weathered. So delicate
and chipped. The edge like a teacup's brim. The edge's
brine, slick with the in and out of the everyday.
Arc to the relentless wound growing upstream.
The terrible hollow. The swim of it.
The gauze in iodine, dabbed on the neck
to connect two small parts or commune
one periphery of the voice box to the other
for transmission of sound. To carry it liquidly.
The vibration of the liquid in the jugular
notch. The iodine in the ravine, humming
with the articulations of the neck. The neck
reclining to extend the chin upwards. As if
to speak. As if to bring the voice closer to the ear.