ELLEN CASWELL

To a Girl Named Siberia

Below the flatline,
a girl walks into a mall.
It’s a good thing
I’m always running
out of knives. My brain
keeps stalking me. “You muse.”
“You succubus.” We’ll settle
this the old-fashioned way.
A fistful of air, a mouthful
of rust. Whatever happened
to Mr. Right Back Then? Whatever
happened? I’ve succumbed
to the fear of a straw-less
planet. Mom says it’s only natural,
but she’s a leafless wonder.
Teetering on a variety of brinks.
I’m an exclusionist
of the highest order, an accidental
necrophiliac. I propose a toast:
to more and many lungfuls.
To has-been deities. To fully
realized men. To every song ever evered,
twice. How long’s it been
since your last nemesis? Remember:
you can say you pity her,
like the handbook says,
but it must always be a lie.