Honey Bunny
Trill
I woke up 90% below ground.
An iceberg. Roots of a linden.
Will you come there with me? I ask you.
Where? you say.
Here, I’m right here.
Where?
Look down, I tell you. Look down farther.
Or is it further?
The sky is a tangerine,
but I’m not even hungry.
The sky is the sky,
but I’ve forgotten how to look
up. Honey Bunny, don’t rob
that diner, I told you I’m not
hungry. Honey Bunny,
the sky so cold, what is wind
but sheaths of glass?
Honey, wrap the bunny
in tinfoil, I’m going
to be late for dinner.
Whenever I ask my dreams where they’re going, it’s always
the same answer: to you: for you: with you: under you: you,
mellifluous you. You, dressed in the wilds of youth. You,
two stars mating next to the thumb of the moon. You,
a cordial invitation to the afterlife. You, all glow as we bathe
our make-believe children in the dried-up lake.
When I touch your thighs, I always imagine the word
ACME stamped on the side of a box of cartoon dynamite.
What I mean is everything. In bed & out. What I mean
is, why try to breathe when you do it for me?
C.J. Miles lives in Iowa with his wife. His poetry has appeared in Forklift, Ohio; Cease, Cows; Jet Fuel Review; Unbroken Journal; and (b)OINK Zine. His collection, What Is Anything Without Pandas, is forthcoming from Ampersand Books.
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