She stretches her arm
and makes it do loops
like a trick plane
over her empty inbox
and mountain of butterfly
clips and mugs full of pens
and pens and markers,
the occasional highlighter
hiding like a suitor
who can't replace
a former love's smile
on his woman's face.
She streches up and out
toward her god, the one
that is not Mohammed's
because her god has a son.
Her hand is a fist
but not angry, just a ball
at the end of a dumb limb
that stiffens during
non-ergonomic keystrokes.
Both hands now, fingers
finishing the puzzle, bending
palm-first to the overhead
flourescence, bowing
like a tree in the wind
in her three-walled cubicle,
the final cracks of her knuckles
a deadened Amen.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment