A man, a marionette, crosses the street:
veteran, barfly, heavy with meatball sandwiches
and draft beer, the stuff that collects around the middle,
a symphony of arms, of spasms on strings,
tied to the heavens yet bound to earth
by the plywood cross that hovers his crown,
invisible. All about balance. In his palms,
you expect stigmata, holes clean through,
the way his hands lift with the beat of his steps,
with the music of the spheres or the body,
that erratic theme, that variation, and every man
a marionette: leaning into trunks, waving at kids
who break bottles in alleys, opening doors to corner stores.
The cramp catches my elbow, like playing Operation,
sending tweezers in for bone and getting shocked.
No music, no earth, only cardboard, metal, plastic
and a buzz that makes the arm jerk in retreat.
©
teaches writing at Rutgers University in Camden, where she completed her MA in English. Her poems have appeared recently in 42opus, caesura, and MARGIE. She lives in Philadelphia.
Byker James’s poem “Wormholes” also appears in this issue.
