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Storm Eye

I am always
trying
to picture it:

this self-body all
alone
within all of the other
self-bodies
empty;
tired;

alone

in a maelstrom
of recycled spare-parts
for feeding the polar bear’s
eye:

distraction’s
the name of the game.

Not that I am
anything other
than Frankenstein girl
(with a whip)
made of worlds
of others,

and infinite
unseen miracles
tracing magic shapes
on hydras
with only
my head
for fodder—

and this limp
mechanical pencil
to write
all the
circle words
down.

I can picture it
and always
it brings

pause

while the fiddlehead
inside of me
grows

fangs—and a love
more sacred
than the touch
of an openmouthed lover
unfurling
in your honey
of lap.

I try to imagine such things,

that these gentle
brutal man fangs
will one day become
the whole bear—
and while I am,

the stars fall
through
the deep
violet clouds
and become
fish
in the eye of sea.

There is only one way to be:
turn the world upside-down and sideways,
then jump in

when no body’s
looking.

© Kristin Reynolds 1 23 2011

Storm Eye

sesheshet

Joined July 2010

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