After Rubens’ The Birth of the Milky Way
The orphan, phlegm swallower, talks
yolk through their broken shell
without the strength to suckle a universe
or pickup a stuffed peacock
who spills feathers as cradle clutter
rather than smother a pillow. Exterminate
the dustmite dynasty—a few pomegranate seeds
mixed with skin cells and charged by a four-volt battery
all ready for purchase.
To be unfamiliar with held hands
when traffic is clammy
only to look left
no farther than an arm can reach,
enter a deli through the emergency escape
alone enough to be caressed by a barcode scanner
but in charitable company, mono for a quarter
kiss. To not waste space
stuck in a booth
with no sock puppets
to wax on the lack of family
or masturbate beneath jean shorts
before they know they are Heracles
the moon is reborn and it is time
to reset the watch.
Sheriff B.J. Franke is an MFA student in poetry at The New School.
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