Ask not how you could ever make it right.

Instead, lie down in your young shame—

its dirty, slender hairdo blades. That panic made

the mouth. The villain fed his girlfriend

a cube of fish off his steak knife,

then drew the blade back through her cheek.

Misfortune filled the little mouths that opened.

Noisy rubies claw a formal sky.

Ashamed, the player spit its tape up in clammy

spasms This is what I saw, this is what I saw,

this is how I felt. What sort of animal makes its home

in the confessional nest? Surrenderer, surrendering.

Surrender-est. A dream is a judge that eats us. And

after every question, a mouth grows on her face.

It fell on us to define shame. I made a fool of myself

but you drove me to it. It fell on me. The villain I led me

to a large white room with a white box in its center. This?

I say, it’s an anti-piano. It takes music from you as you play.

***

Bridget Talone is the author of THE SOFT LIFE (Wonder, 2018) and two chapbooks: Sous Les Yeux (The Catenary Press) and In the Valley Made Personal (No, Dear/Small Anchor Press). Bridget lives in Philadelphia, and is the recipient of a NYSCA/NYFA Artist Fellowship in Poetry from the New York Foundation for the Arts.

Image: tinybuddha.com

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