Dana Rushin - 2
if truth be told,
there are no real seasons; no plausible
connections to the cold. Only
that at certain times
we push damp towels into the door jam
so that boneless mice might not squeeze their
bodies into warmth.
I wrote a poem last evening about their great migration:
the onomatopoeia of it. How the soul of everything
searches for that certain buzz
that suggests the eternal voice. Then how that voice lays
dormant, perhaps slothful
until the image of meadows
corrals the conspectus of learning. As if Lewis and Clark
didn't think twice about
having to eat the flesh of uncooked buffalo's
while discovering the great North West
then sat their foil asses on the ground, writhing for
Pepto Bismol. This past hot summer burned up my lawn,
so I fertilized it in June which burned it up even more.
So I stopped doing everything and it became green again.
Then the neighbors boy played in it's glade
and ran for his ball.
well over a million times,
the story of alien abductions.
Where each time the alien
and the spacecraft larger.
for a mouth.
with no sense of humor.
The one whose tiny body
has known no American
No all you-can-eat buffets.
No Ambien nightmares.
No overdue mortgages.
No three day rainfalls. No
flooded basements. No
Freezers and water tanks
floating from the shipwrecked
stairwell. No child support payments.
No cheating lovers.
Just calm and spinning lights,
and silver exasperating nights.