Silver body paint streaks and runs as black
down my arm.
The fourth needle breaks off
right in the crook of my elbow.
The oily suspension
requires a bigger gage.
Anyway, Mother’s no good at injecting.
An orange smear where Mother swabs my arm.
In display cabinets overhead
Swiss army knives ape sublime, getting
smaller and smaller.
Who can decide between tweezers, a lens, and file,
or scissors, hook, and reamer apt
with sewing eye?
What algorithmic mysteries of usefulness and need
different combinations of devices
bring to mind.
Not like the old-fashioned analog synth on the counter.
Twist a knob,
the sound from one key depressed to make sound
at a time will change.
Flip a switch, twist a knob, hear the sound
change with it.
Could have only one
slightly yellowed plastic key,
with endless dials and buttons to marshal
a galaxy of sound.
One hand
squeezing the trigger to
rev the chuck
of a pistol grip power drill,
with her other hand
Mother swabs my temple
and says, “Now, that one, dear,
is a real gem.”
