When I was smaller, no,
when I was smaller than that, even smaller
than carbon isotopes
resting all dirty-like and hoping beyond hope,
I was this and that, or that and
the other thing. Because I said so.
I was in a previous incarnation
a lonely koala bear, sucking
eucalyptus leaves from their branches,
scratching my balls against the bark.
Do koalas get itches? Do they know
how to quell them, bury them
deep within their darkness, their awfulness?
If I called you last night, I was most likely
typing this at home swigging a glass of milk.
If you’re reading this after news of your mother’s death,
I’m most likely retyping this at home thinking
about how I should retype this. What axioms
are deleteable? What font works best?
O varsity letter of catacombs,
O gathering of catacombs, risky, calm,
contingencies of choir and rejoice.
I am a lonely koala bear, oh lawdy,
I’m a selfish doohickey, thingamajig,
contraption of the devil, synapse of devilhood,
little snow globe of a world.