Tegan Jane Schetrumpf

Lit-Mag #46 – Madrigalesque

How can you?

With the pop, pop, of apoptosis in your ear

weave and dodge words

you’d rather not hear?

There’s a pulse.  Diastolic da-dum.

The beat of a drum.
Empty skin.

And the dong.
The dignified chime
of some grandfather clock
measuring time with his hickory switch.
You bare two timid cheeks
and receive the cuts.

Shaping lies
with your lips
carving soap with your tongue
in playing card housing
for that’s how it’s done.

Do you know?

Each day that you swallow
dab with your napkin
you waste

your final thought.
You’ll be angry then.

wish for the Orphic voice to call another lifetime.
(The one underneath that you should have been living)


(each mistake)

(those times you left the ache to burn inside instead of howling)

But you danced, didn’t you?  Danced – cha cha cha.

One, two, cha cha cha.

Your moves,
but learned steps.

When you cut out your tongue
thicken ear drums
blind eyes

You make it dark.

One more to sing rhymes
of ‘The Way Things Are.’

One less to imagine
the best of our times,

to outlast the whisk
the tsk tsk of fear.

Can you hear? It approaches.

Pop, pop. It approaches.

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