Siren Song
by NICHOLAS CHIARELLA
All the time, these smoke rings—
the self-combustion of giants and histories'
engines. Coal-fed apes raid grocery stores,
peasant simians mocking our habits
with priestly lines and register.
The second coming of appearance
appeared today, a tiny, sweet apple
lacking seeds, waxed perfection.
They all knew this apple, knew
that it was, was not them,
and was for sale.
I have twice appeared as this apple,
now. Delight without appendage!
Hope upon fruit! Facts out from under!
The lively curriculum and my vitals
splay office walls and file-cabinets,
the hated dust of hallway closets:
Ampersand upon ampersand to the honors
staking claims in the fresh west
of my soiled hands. Gypsies and ringmasters
in racing bibs and babies' robes
make interest from my short recess
while child-gods chew scorched acorns
along the fairways.
I will move to the land
of Christmas greens in my mind.
I will cast doubts on the palsied
turf of torch-lit arenas. I will pare
logos from law and player from part.
I will make like a tree
and branch.