They said I need to change the launch angle
and split open the soil between the mound
and the plate. That
that could be a first step to eliminating lockjaw
and cleaning up the wax
out in the briar patch. Forget
the moral, they announced,
There are no contrails left for that
And besides, the resentment
already has pockets,
Which means the lockjaw could return,
Unless you hike into
the underbrush and take
this bloodroot as an antiplaque.
So on I went, forgetting my cage,
imagining cloud-kelp, pulling my cap
down tighter on my brow, smelling
instead of feeling, following
their directives on negative self-talk
as I stalked deeper inward,
repeatedly looking up at the sky
to see red seams disappearing.
— KG NEWMAN
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