I walk into a room, to see what’s going on.
Wolves and worms and cats, somehow, have made it
on the train – to where? I scan the place, congested
space, to find the nearest glade –
Honey music is there now. Bunny music makes them
run – you say I don’t know how a Modern Language
can function as a gun, but she says she knows Shakespeare
and Queen Jane is on the bus right now.
Memories mambo into place. As he sits down next to me
to begin the interview, an alarm goes off but to its
chagrin, the room stays still and silent. Her hair is full
to the brim of noises when she says “You’re a pig” and keeps
one hand in her boyfriend’s pocket, the other clutching
chapstick and popping the cap. When they come into the room
to check our chemical levels, we are pleasantly
surprised to find them all like lambs. I say “I can’t do this
now!” and they follow me away, while Orpheus plays
his lovely drums on the stomachs of a Greek chorus
as they sway.
organ of criticism