By Viktorsha Uliyanova
News flash, a score board reading zero-zero.
A transplant of languages,
Our lost watering holes are buried here.
Do say, there is mud on your knees,
Wash, wash, wash it away,
The planted roots are circling like a throbbing toothache.
Like a nebula fading,
Like a train derailment,
A baptism, a test tube baby.
Like chewing on their mouths in the dark,
Like a lost bullfight,
Like stealing the Bible from a stale hotel room,
Like wishing for a Missouri flood,
The last curtain call.
Like the message on your answering machine,
A radioactivity warning,
Like heavy African limbs with moth-eaten plush,
Like running next to a shaman riding a bicycle,
Like drowning in your attic,
A wounded school boy,
Like Indian ceremonial dancers,
Stolen WWII medals,
Like Coney Island dying in the winter,
A ship sinking,
An orchestra tuning out,
Like we’re facing away from the earth.
Clutching at Straws 