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”)