the coincidence of being blind

by Eszter Takacs

Where the outside of you can lie still
like a boneyard, heavy-handed
artillery and limp jacket carved of
cellophane, it is a wreckage of stolen
arms. I can only speak as if
before punctuation, before somewhere
that I learned not to say but until
the question leans away from the open palm.
This wasn’t a thousand particular mornings
but one when I recall the darts flying overhead
from your rigid hands while I pretended sleep
just to exhaust any option of asking again.
Therein grows a lake, like a catch phrase
ready to jump from the page.
It goes beyond the front doors
and when a hammock appears in the yard,
it is merely a cover. Nobody sleeps.  Nobody dies.
We are unprincipled.  We look for talismans and hide
between 24 hour anywheres and the darkest rooms
with zippered curtains, lilac walls, mirrored ceilings.
We are deceived by the clock’s insistence
to move forward. We cannot. We stagger, slide-shifting
in every direction. A thought outside of the clearing,
bed of roses, punishments, pails of liquor
undulate, and so revisions never work.
Do you remember playing darts overhead
while I slept?  Curious decisions are made
in the dark hours of the moon’s split, so it goes
to say, and we blame the belt of relativity.
There are tornadoes faltering in every sky.
Let us be this great thing.

*

Eszter Takacs lives in Los Angeles.  She holds a BA in English from Loyola Marymount University and hopes to begin her studies as an MFA candidate in the near future.  Her work has appeared in L.A. Miscellany and has poems forthcoming in The Dirty Napkin, elimae, Anemone Sidecar, Utter Magazine, and Rufous City Review.  She also paints, takes pictures, and is deeply intrigued by Japanese businessmen who sing karaoke and do magic tricks.

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