Runcible Spoon

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            The Wireless Talks to Itself


My unhinged body splays

every which way, ghost children

gathering me up to play knucklebones.


The embalmed face of the moon

pales each toss, yet, there has been

no death, no dying. Instead,


I am displaced, planted in furrows.

Nightly, my would-be killer

walks backward into his intention.


From the children’s palms,

the dark soil, I watch him retreat,

cocking an ear at each throw


but never turning. Not even when

implausibly, I split like a seedpod,

unfurling towards an unseen outlet.


Should I find one, what

will scream alive on my current?

How will I be made to dance?


                 (after Sylvia Plath’s “The Detective”)