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Drill Down In the Fly Room

by Joyelle McSweeney
June 12th, 2019

One eye lidless
wants to close one pupil
wants to contract one valve wants
to over-emote two arms want to cramp
instinctively back into their fetal
attitude of flight or hug
their own spine
from the wrong side

What is it to survive
or lie cossetted in a coma
a bombilation of effects
a thicket of causes—
white-eyed, black-fledged
quiver of hyphens falls
like arrows through the centuries—
closes the skull, camera obscura
drape of error

The dashcam spills its
ribbon of data
up in green pools
above the bloodbank
In dim cloud
stars rise
Each breast wears a badge
that brays
like a crowned
tooth in a grave

This smashed clock
stays right all day
Under the coronor’s saw
the heart bears a crown
of burst vessels, the sapiens
is diadem’d
with cabochons and
and fractures

It’s coronation day
The morguedrawer
rolls back
Coldness is a lack
Yet here‘s
an increase:
Morning
unrolls its
bombazine

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