Todd COLBY
I Welcome You
The back of my head is pierced
like a bean on a trouble hook, stabbing
the cranial loop. I'm starting to feel drippy.
It's creepy without being, you know, icky.
Listen: I'm on to you and the volleyball
you tethered to a strand of stinky old boat rope, in a fishy way.
In order to delay the onset of the dementia of affection
I hugged foam cushions from the sofa while you were away—
now the cat is really out of the bag. I was able to pass
honorably as an age-grouper with solid thighs
in the Polaroid. Now I'm dirty by design, reaching
new heights under a cascade of racing tools
and venom extraction kits. Someone just walked in
and heard me banging on the glass. A message
was scrawled on my goggles with snot and wax, you don't
remember doing it, do you? A mix and match of
mud and honey, thick around there, but just
right here. You wore a leather wristband signifying
that you were a friar up for a little grab-ass.
I welcome you now to the cedar and Blistex breakfast nook.
Pink Lincoln
Vivid as pink steam
in front of a taillight. I look forward
to new challenges and obtain satisfaction
when pursuing my endeavors.
That's really good, no, really—it is.
You've seen the telepathy on TV, and
and you've inserted your finger into a dreamer—
now, what will you have for lunch?
We don't get what we want; we get what we deserve,
and we have to live with that. Hurry now to the light
and tell them you forgot who they were.
An indigo wave is towering over us. I like water
that doesn't force us to swim in it.
An index of first loves and lies. Biting the lip of a machine.
A tulip bulb is sanded down to a brown pearl.
I recommend that you put some potpourri on your desk
because the odor is pleasing. A paramedic will come in
and cut off your leg in a game called Bombardment.
If someone brushes against you on the subway ask:
does my baby need a panther?
Put lavender oil on the light bulb and think of the driver
of the Pink Lincoln as a bumpkin. Patience, conquerable by nothing.
Adult Bread
Scrubbing Daddy with a knife will only enflame the situation.
The agency of soap is sweets. Alone, take a coin to the face
and rinse your teeth out with the brick water of a wave.
You love me—you know it, is etched in the atmosphere.
A blanket with fireflies lodged in the creases.
A healthy gash on my chin materializes, leaves me
woozy under a steady stream of sandy towels,
face pain aftershocks, and deep panic air spat from my lungs.
In the palm of the preface to the very pulse of the enemy there
is a sudden death of father muscle, her beefy arms and muted exterior:
because I'm the mommy that's why.