as ammo to target.
It is, rather, to renewal
as wild violets
are to false eyelashes.
•
Oh, flying throats that fill
the skies each spring!
Oh, nocturnal thump reversing
the still of the night!
It is not a hairbrush. At its deepest depths it is a longing, a fantasy that our urges are orderly. The waitress was born here moments ago, parting the dark curtains of some sleepy god’s head. To blink requires faith. To groom is to become a god.
When she hurts me, she is merely the stunt double for some other hurt. The spicy stew arrives. Though its ingredients were harvested this morning, its recipe is timeless. She is a master of the here and gone. Her perfume lingers like a deaf child for whom the bell is meaningless.
Her clothes are always clean.
It is only a bell. At its deepest depths it longs to destroy everything and begin anew. The waitress reappears. Our parents are photographs. They want no part of these new shenanigans. They wish we would grow up.
so goes
the Mexican Hairless,
the Xoloitzcuintli,
or Xolo for short.
Consider the topical creams
and historians,
their false promises
of restoration.
Consider the blister.
As America goes,
so goes the safety pin's
unironic elegance.
Skin has a way of making
its primal needs known.