Duck duck duck duck eventually
I have to change.
It doesn’t mean anything
when it happens.
It picks the same man again and again
until the day the same man appears different.
It is his shirt or the drift of his hairdo.
His history’s eaten itself.
Now it is my turn to be it.
Let me tell you about the special.
It looks like I am made of wax,
but I am made of snow. So
why doesn’t anyone love me!
I am ready for it—I am in a room
and everything. What’s the big
difference between hanging around
the half-price lemons and coming
over to lift up my shirt? And if
not you, then someone. And if
not then, then now. I’m not melting—
I’m shining. I am over-aware
of the light. And you! You can
land on the sidewalk! You can
do all these things with no words.
HEATHER CHRISTLE is the author of four poetry collections, most recently Heliopause (Wesleyan University Press, 2015). Her first work of nonfiction, The Crying Book, is forthcoming from Catapult.