Bridge
Amy Bouse
The End of Act III
Charlie Meehan
The world’s your oyster, but the future’s your clam.
-- The Jam
Scratching away
the years with my fingernails,
I dream of short sentences
tangled up with verbs.
A strange mouth robs
my speech as I listen
to it call my name.
Yesterday, I drove
through dusty photos
without a breath.
A winter of words
gathers its snow
in my mouth.
It’s still cold
under the tongue.
A lonely signature,
I walk among
the furniture, yet chairs
are arranged differently.
An automatic nodding
is all that is left
as people carry
proverbs into my house.
I spend an afternoon
trying to wash
the smell of violet
out of my clothes.
My soul crouches
on the flat of my palm.