MAYDAY

Reading an Article with a Chunk Missing, Chewed by the Dog
by Charlene Fix

Contributed By:

Image courtesy Vasily Koloda

Reading an article with a chunk missing, chewed by the dog,

is a little like going to the bathroom during a movie,

then returning to your seat relieved, or your child relieved,

a portion missing now forever from the story.

 

The thread of discourse severed and randomly spliced,

you may as well build a nest in the hollow of a tree,

go live an alternative life, minus the necessary

wooden bowl of milk and wild strawberries.

 

But if you commit to your actual life, be ready

to swerve around potholes, convincing your suspension

the pavement is smooth, and to depend upon

your brain to dupe you, filling in gaps in the field.

 

At times you’ll find yourself stepping bravely onto a path

overgrown with thorns, also called tomorrows,

such as after losing a beloved. Then you’ll know

the emptiness of the egg after the chicken is out.

 

You’ll commiserate with the rose that the beetles

are munching.  Go ahead, pluck up that bone with its

marrow sucked dry. It’s not a telescope, but you’ll be

surprised what you can see through tinges of calcium and blood.

 

Such hollows have their use. They make birds are light

enough to fly, prevent roots in flowerpots from drowning.

The holes in Swiss cheese bestow a mysterious taste.

 

Some of the article’s missing chunk is lying shredded on the floor,

so you must ponder more intensely now, without its help. Some

of that bit of genius, insight, wit is going on a journey far from you,

undergoing transformation in the belly of the text-transcendent dog.

Filed Under: Poetry

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