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{the animal languages} amy king She walks in her summertime limp, hoping the masses won’t notice. We do, the big beautiful bees of us, pulling the veins in our wings, smoking light through antennae ends we’re sure could reach another form of life when it comes down to us. I’m sympathetic. I can crack the code. I know who shot the film that plays everyday along the walls of the black halls that lead to how many meals we hide in her pantry. She smelled but couldn’t stand the taste of having every food. We did her in. You think I am she. She is you and everyone who adjusts too well. The hint of another country turns your head—not enough carrots? How else can I please a lady and get the next direction? When you examine the language system here, I’ll fax your final directives and leave the turntable orchestra on. Meanwhile, the closest I’ve come to Canada and Paris, the lower countries, is the memory of a tourist’s water globe, dusted out. Leaning towers, shotgunned moose, erosion takes over a living room with fplc, 4bdrm, 2bath, and shag in metallic cupboards. Plenty of protein, no garden to keep appearances up. Serial dependence plus two a.m. and several half humans post-conscious in beds. I elect to eat the heads, leave the stems to purpose— never a simple procedure, more like a shelling that sends us backyard underground, belly-up beneath the three-eyed rabbits. If we build safeguards against our dream lives, will we seek the pea beneath pecan shells on a foreign shelf of rusted tuna fish cans, until you complete your thought, turn the code, and we speak again? We seed through the hush, rising from earth, sentiments through flame. |
