a poem from Issue 34.1

Adam Explains His Implications

by Sean Bishop

There’s a hole in your tin pail, that’s what I mean.
I mean you wear it; I mean you’re a breakable
mini-anyone, playing soldier, squinting through it
at your father whom you hate.

What I mean is that’s you at the barbecue,
burning the burgers. That’s you
mowing the wet lawn, choking the blade.

There is a piece of you, I mean,
that you adore, that wanders loose
and ruins everything, and whatever

you make—an omelet, a bracelet
from a dandelion stem, a dreamed-up someone
with complementary sex parts
by whom you judge all prospects—

will wear your face against your wishes
and need to be destroyed.

I mean you are mud-made
and daily trample yourself.

I mean, put some clothes on.

I mean there are things you don’t want to know,
and although the world is there
without you, although

the black wasps jitter in their holes
whether you tell them to or not,

each morning you rise and bend the world
by naming it. If you call the boy or girl
beside you, who yesterday did God knows what
with whom, laughing in the bushes,
Love, then that is love.

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