Small, Mad Planets
by Lynne Thompson
We are all small, mad planets—
our veins swollen and sock-eye red,
memories short and less than useful;
they cannibalize our bloodstreams.
Old folks, knotted, gnarled, will tell you:
we are all small, mad planets, no less
twisted into a hump-backed tango,
no less implanted in this sad magenta soil.
Perhaps our batteries are dead or our
smoke alarms can’t recite their hard luck
and so we become small, mad planets
where rain in Djibouti doesn’t matter
any more than snow piling up in Duluth.
A child’s creaky yellow wagon is stilled
while a woodpecker’s rap is hysterical
because we’re all such small, mad planets.
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