Sara Lynch
Brooklyn, New York
In Media Rez
I was left oddly riveted,
hip-spread at a departure.
A silly limed plant
potted in a lock-jaw.
Where were the cards hid?
My upper limb lost in the stale
soup crust that was coated
with lame questions. I still can’t
call back that scrappy wonder
that saw bare fleets when
the ships were always painted.
Maybe if I had been something
closer to the color in a color field,
I could remember getting wasted
on all unconditionals. Loopy
anesthesia gapes. But now I’m just
stuck on this brownwash exit.
Something bayonet-like
about it; nothing being pulled
from my breast-bone.
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