prone to strike (the ones I love most)
I took a garbage bag & a roll of foil, fashioned
capacitor. but the lawn mower’s battery was
what it was—was dead. I said now how am I going
to start over. shift the gears in my chest, alter
ethos—my movements or injured adjuncts, aluminum.
my car is sick. my breath—broken. the clock crawls—
tock tock tick. tardy to a race across
time’s AAA. take the anode & stick it
to your tongue. if you taste copper, whistle
into the wings of a frozen lake; face the charge
of Van Allen Belts; with icicled lashes, note
the tarnish of my fingers: aurora, an ending wind.
if there are clouds, watch for sink
holes, search for signs of static.
(noise)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . wash my back / the bite marks won’t
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . come out / & I won’t give up
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . your teeth / for anything
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . less than / moonlight
in spite / of the spitting stove
. . . blisters bloom / on my fingers
is that your distress flare or is it the season for bursting air
for Shannon Leigh
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . it’s the parade that holds everyone up
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . for pocket lint / been seeing you
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . everywhere we say / how the clouds are
falling in the shape of your animal
face / your mouth opens, the rain of it
dapples our vision / & I am
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . convinced of wax & (your coffin lined
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . with) silk / we, we want you
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . to have pristine shins—to never be
scraped (as your knees), & to say we caught
you every time sits on the tongue like gum
drops / using your name
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . in vain, our saccharine calls: angel,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . goddess / you, you—something so, so
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . human, we need to turn you
myth / as if there were room
for lyres or pedestals on your back / & it’s in
parade that I see you—
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . outside the cut & paste
Panika M. C. Dillon is from Fairbanks, AK and Austin, TX. She received her MFA in creative-writing poetry from Sarah Lawrence College. Her work has appeared in Heavy Feather Review, Poets&Artists, Copper Nickel, The Diagram and others. She works as a political organizer in Central Texas.
–Art by Marina Ćorić