Flexibility

Emily Alexander

Sometimes I am worrying about my carbon footprint, and other times
I am kissing. Sometimes I’m a microphone; sometimes a thin line. I swim
sometimes a dark lake—naked, indigo, moonlight drumrolling
the water. Just this morning I flipped the light switch, and I’m now consumed
by this immutable terror, albeit dulled by a few beers, almonds
I drop and lose in my hair, and the bartender’s loose ease stacking glasses
against his elbow crease. Sometimes I am saying wow fuck that guy
while sulking through normal days. Mostly I am apologizing, and a man unwraps specialty chocolate in a silk robe, looking out over the city: streets gleaming
like the bald heads of his sons whose kingdoms and perfect teeth
make up for their vast emotional deficiencies. He watches
the radioactive dusk slouch toward the windows of his tall hotels, and here
is all I know: the capital of Alaska is Juneau. The only moon
we named the moon is our own. When asked where we go
when we die, the gorilla said a comfortable hole with her hands. Sometimes
I am a shadow across a picnic table, but now I am feeling a little shy.