[It curdles]

It curdles.

Whatever it is, the moon perhaps,


the equation of raised hair on skin, or

the tongue of doubt that eats


like a flower. Anyway

it curdles. Two-dimensional depictions


of light on glory, the violence of

right, tenderness


beckoned. Please go.

The purple in my muscles squelches.


Fear isn’t flat, I’m trying

to deny science.


Arthritis crunches in the mind, featherless, sure

of certainty. Gentians


lick sunlight. I wiggle

my toes and wind swallows


us both — the flash drive and me —

spits night back


into my eyes: cool water

and silence. Indulgence travels on


with a cloak, just another viajero

peddling his trade. I fall


awake into manzanita scrub and blessed

sky, my ribs still aching with corn syrup.

Tiffany McFarlane--Copy of an alien conn

© 2020 Orris Root

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