i watered my fingers
only when they turned needle.
walked eighteen miles
in the ghastly forest-desert
to consult a field of talking cactus.
i wore my purse like a necklace
& counted my savings. coins
turned locus in my hands.
another plague is always
just around the corner. what can
a boy-girl do but look toward leather
for durability. sharpen their knives
on the moon. "what must be done
will be done," says the first cactus,
arms like a goal post. face as silent
as the side of a mountain.
the next suggests, "have you tried
closing your eyes & counting
to one-thousand." i have no
& do no plan to. keep thinking
i should have asked a river
what i should do with my body.
cactus are prone to optimism.
i can't decide if bright sides
are still a thing. is there
anything good in the garage?
earth tilts more than she should
& i feel it. kneel down
to try to adjust it same as
a crooked picture frame
but it seems like everyone is
comitting to being askew
for the forseeable future.
another cactus says, "everything
is wrong..." i plug my ears
& i'm sorry reader but i didn't
catch the rest. i have become
a collector of purposeful unknowns.
the cactus are not in a field.
they wither into mint flavored tooth picks.
we have a kitchen the size of the world.
the last knife snaps in half
& now all we have are our discontents.