The Wrong Miracle
Liz Gallagher

The wrong miracle comes from the pulse at your
throat. I think about hiding it behind cacti. I should

try to grab the rabbit’s torn corpse from a beloved
dog’s mouth. But even that wouldn’t fix things.

The tears in the wind are hollow, days loosen;
they knee-jerk breath into something that is rotting.

A polyglot would know how to say the unspeakable.
You hold my fingers and bend them backwards,

making the palm of my hand into an outer planetary
terrain of bumps and crevices. And you are a space

walker, pinning flags, popping pills and miming love
through the bubbles of a glass pressure helmet. And I,

a solitary Princess, blow kisses in the wrong direction.