In England, the Formidable Ms X Takes Directions from Some Guy Named Z
First it’s liftoff and she’s wearing her history
like a bib. Sleep won’t bend her knee, she’s
bent with the lack. So she’s going with the man
and the wind blows through. She won’t beat like
a wren’s wing, like that wing but she’ll flap and
he knows it. Bird on the breeze over the sheep-
field. Take these bitters and run to the pub. No.
Not what he said he said here is the fence now
play outside. He said here is the gate now play
outside. He said go outside. Yes. And, yes, has
a kink in her hip, her brain’s on hold. She’s a mild
case of still alive. (Still has the mother’s eyes, and
the father’s eyes. The gun & a bucket for the blood.
She climbs their rope ladders. A wind blows through.)
She’s eating cold fish. She’s eating cold fish and
she’s watching three sheep, three bend at the knee.
When she flaps those sheep turn and turn
their sheepy eyes. Behind barbed wire the sheep
turn. She’s taking direction from some guy named Z.
She’s taking that direction: turns left at the bus stop,
dustbin, callbox. Turns right at the White Hart, brown
dog, stoat. Lorry, biscuit, hedgepig, hare turning.
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