Jailbreak my compass, let it point the righteous way.
Give me one good saucy line to holster,
give me a metric that will make me loved,
a gun that unkills and a gospel small enough
to tattoo on my nails. Text me, Lord. Also,
free the rhesus. Make the bricks smile
and let the mare bite the fly for a while.
Let the rabbits roar and leap the pond. Make me
a lily, paint my petals neon, toss them on the dance floor
one by one. Give me a frilly shirt, too-tight shoes,
glitter-brows and girls who call me Girl. Light me blind
and strike me dumb, give me consonants for bones
and vowels for organs. Pin tarot cards to my spokes,
turn my platen, jam my needle in the groove,
hold my beat between finger and thumb.
Make me the hole and the dirt taken out of it.
ROBERT LUNDAY used to live on a small horse-farm in central Texas, and will soon again live in a small horse-farm in central Japan. Until then, he is on the edge of Houston, locked down. He is the author of Mad Flights (Ashland Poetry Press, 2202) and Gnome (Black Sun Lit, 2017). He has just finished a hybrid memoir called Fayettenam: Meditations on Missingness.
