by Isaac Robertson
I twitch as a kid punts a cat figurine
And it clicks, rolls on linoleum; while
Streams of a night vision flux past my trapezii
Like a mane spun taut—heavy and stiff, but
WHO MADE MAN’S MOUTH plays over the particulate
Technicolor store-bought box-set in the corner of the
Unsettling, in a way, that cirrus chromatics like those
Could weigh so heavy so stiff—and my new
Waiting room, the simulated icon of what
We all hope actually happened to the young
Polished eyes are too saturated now but my body supplicates;
A chasm opens beneath me inside me and I recoil like a
Murderer after he lost a sheep;
A woman in an isotope robe calls my tape number.
Dark mewling cloistered in a womb of warm glare:
The cat’s hips rest like a game-cube controller on my lap