Throw Yourself into the Prairie - Francesca Chabrier

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turn to neon.

      This is not because

      I want to destroy the tree.

      It’s because sometimes

      it is fun to watch things

      misbehave.

      I am me, but I am a cow.

      You are a river.

      You think I am cute.

      You call me kitten-cow.

      You are a river, but your water

      looks like a hologram

      and when I look at you,

      I see a fake reflection.

      You tell me I am wearing

      five scarves even though

      I have mittens on.

      I throw a coin at you,

      but you are not a fountain.

      You ask me to meow

      for you, but I won’t.

      I feed you chocolate, and we play that game

      where I write on your leg with my finger.

      You brush my hair for 2 hours

      while I spell things like:

      cheek against soft pumpkin fur, and

      I would come to you on a rubber gull.

      The eyes and the faces become less easy

      to make out in the night,

      but we go on and on.

      Wax ponyfish. Japanese fog.

      I am stupid at stopping.

      The white machine is packed with lights.

      The machine is white

      because it has let the snow collect.

      There is a baby inside

      the machine. There are stars,

      and also a deep place you can go

      to see Machu Picchu.

      The machine

      produces white paper. The paper

      is smooth like the voice I am using

      to talk to you. I write a letter

      on the paper and slide it under your door.

       Hello, please give me back

      the umbrella you borrowed.

      When rain falls on the machine,

      it bubbles first and then produces a noise

      that sounds like passing through

      an aisle of shaking trees.

      This is the sound of the machine crying.

      The machine is white

      and eats white bread. White milk.

      The machine runs on white milk. It

      collects snow. It holds the baby.

      I smack the machine and the baby shakes.

      Inside there are mummies wrapped in white paper.

      A telephone rings.

      Hello, I will not give you back your umbrella.

      The snow turns to rain and makes white puddles.

      The baby swims in the water,

      and floats on the surface like a bottle.

      The white machine is tired. I hold it

      and kiss it with my clean white hands.

      All morning, I walk around with a bag over my head.

      My mother calls on the telephone. She wears a paper hat. She keeps it in her pocketbook while she is sleeping. “I want to join in,” I tell her. I fold the bag into a sombrero. Outside, there are no ships. The bay is foggy and still. I am exhausted. I am like a runner about to cross the finish line at the end of a very important race. When you ask me to love you, I rise up like a balloon. I ring your doorbell five times. I wait for you to have me in and hang up my hat.

      You are getting a root canal

      at a dentist’s office in Waco.

      You do not live in Waco,

      and you are still sleepy

      from flying. When the stewardess

      Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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