By Robin Kalinich
are trying to kill me.
Yesterday, they assembled
into an army,
but today they are pretending
to be dead.
They like to keep me guessing.
They are dirty coins
that refuse to be spent.
Why can’t my words fly?
I scrape them together,
rubbing my hands raw,
and blow on them
sweetly.
Nothing.
Try licking, someone said.
I know now that this was most likely
a joke, but that was unclear to me at the time.
They have moved a little,
but this is only due to the tiny pieces of twine
that I have affixed at each corner.
Bruised now, battered beyond all recognition,
they lie sickly and
pale with reproach.
Later, in the coldest part of the night
I hear whispering,
and before I can run,
they cut me off at the knees
Clutching at Straws 