I stockpile amulets against the
old ways, just in case.
The latest from a book about fishing:
There’s nothing interesting about a resistible urge.
Drifted around CVS after he called
stoned in the way where all the world’s a cartoon,
clutching a handful of cheap mascaras.
Each a transformative offering:
cat eyes, ‘wide-eyed manga look’,
something to do with stilettos.
I chose ‘Illegal length’,
batted lacquered lashes
over the giant margarita’s rim
in mimicry of some illicit invitation
Our talk was direct, instead,
close enough to tension-drained.
His voice tilted concerned,
like fidelity’s a disease I caught.
Another round to realize, & not for the first time,
how I remember things all wrong.
Which is to say, incandescently.
Didn’t his eyes used to do something
in the old poems?
Before, the air stilled.
I called it a glitch,
hypergraphia, temporary psychosis,
the flu, the spins.
All the words I mistook for sleepwalking.