a wormhole in the land
Lauren Marie Stevens
oh the bitter children who were proprietors
literary on their own space-
time
advising the councils to
erect gates or suck
on certain sweet morsels
of honeycomb,
to defend a house or houses
or yards,
studious at diagrams with
the names of men on them.
where the dogs go is a native stance
and in our fleshy outfit of human
emotion reason and instinct inextricably woven
we move to the tune of the sea
eying with a cocked head the proverbial
set-of-scales which mouths the names of
those we know, and what we
have guard over:
crops, pride, relatives;
satiety,
assets and ontological figureheads
registered trademarks stamped with
the stern eyebrows of duty,
and likewise in that breathing dress
we stand under-star to think of
the strange yarn of history,
everyman’s house so big to them when
also they end up
a wormhole in the land
maybe well-dressed in a pale suit or ash like
yesterday’s bonfire
no matter what inventions
come to excite the social moan and tickle
the mind/senses/holy beating heart
(pyramids;
later, also pianos
and large plates of glass,
or elevators)
they still
would not manage to vanish the threat,
the threat
which is the impetus:
death, or failure; bad reputation, or
a hunger of some kind
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