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I go to sleep and wake up
different. You make a lengthy
drive across Iowa to find
the other end of Iowa, its fields
hung silent in iron sky. Claims
are always being made
about precision. If I were a bird
I would mean to be
the small kind. What is going on
in that room where
no one lives? It might fill
itself with delicate things,
some very nice iron bowls,
twelve miniature trees all
of them aflame. Listen,
Cody. How many times
did they tell you
you’d never make it? One day
is never longer than
the next untangling film
from a canister. Somebody
means to measure you
by needle and light.
I take a quiet kind
of panic to the river.

Wendy Xu, It’s Almost My Birthday Don’t Tell Anyone
9 months ago August 12, 2012 147 notes #wendy xu
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