Idiolexicon: 4/2/2007

Malia Jackson

from Thomas

I don’t know
much about insects and that’s just
about all I know for sure about me.

The pearly junebug near my toes
crawls impatiently
toward the darker half of the room.

Your hands are slender and
radiantly veined, it makes me want
to fold myself in half
repeatedly until I could fit inside
a crossword puzzle square.

O I’d pluck those veins like harpstrings if I could.

I glissando the dimming air as the
junebug reaches the halfway point.


Still all you talk about
are rocketships. The kind that
arrive before anyone knows they’ve
left. We will embellish the
titanium with prison tattoos and

rhinestones, and I’ll husk one
sunflower seed for every day
you’re gone. You’ll ask for
chewing gum upon your return;
I know it. How lovingly

we checked that ship for


to go through and put a kink in every flower’s stem. when fragility

goes unrecognized. just a crust of bread in a jacket pocket. you, too, Thomas were

a bed. the room was a going into. windows frame paintings of pastures: fuzzy livestock
dip their heads. snapping my fingers to.

this denim organ continues, a coming out of. because we don’t abandon difficult books.


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