Satanic Stanzas; On Hands After Reading Bad Poetry
Laura V. Rivera
At an attempt to feel— nothing. Untouched
as an ugly rock and the shell of expired eggs,
I turned off the light in the reading room.
Pardon the solitary practice of seeming; to indulge in—
ah, the very weather that is—aha
that starts private twitches, sudden conscious racket.
I lattice fingers into a bored cat’s cradle
that my x-ray brain knows are rocky bones
and worm candy. Something sort of wonderful.
Pardon the solitary game of cards, that I lost.
I drank to the Invisible Victor,
making a point to myself.
Hands, still alive, pat on words like good dogs
and scratch goodly at the cream arm pit of a book,
but I do not feel for them the rest of the day.
Pardon the solitary practice of forgetting
but poetry, the poetry was stale. There is no
a body, a name.