The Shape
Coughing up a speck. These doctors
don’t know anything. Don’t
have any clinical experience.
I saw
your house from the air. I saw
your face when you swiped
your badge.
A stranger sat briefly on my lap
That was when I caught my first glimmer of you
in my mind
Their harassment led, however circuitously,
to his suicide. A huge
cast-iron ball, orange with rust,
looming in the corner like a bathysphere.
I whispered the description
and the program heard me
I sang the shapes
and the machine lumbered along
behind me, picking up the notes I dropped
and that, my child, is how you were conceived
The rolled up carpet, the darts tournament
broadcast in every television in the hotel
with the volume knobs broken
He likes talking about
movies he’s never seen
and swinging his big bald head around
And someday, when all this has passed,
you will finally be born. And it
will have been too late.
All we will have left
is the shape
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