wieldy

Sixteen Things You Should Know

by Amy King



By the time I hide my middle name, 

you'll claim the first truth:  

I live across the street from Citgo in Brooklyn.  

Dead wood turns to curbside furniture;

legally-muscled butcher fingers 

kosher flanks; bottled-water swaps 

condensation for summer heat.

They found a capsized girl from Georgia 

holding court on red clay ensconced 

by her amber ego beneath my turban bonnet.

Since then, I will not make love 

until I am in it. 

I cage the dog's bark in caffeinated lightning

as I lip-sync my first name when asked.  

History never finds me nor finds me out

the same. You, in turn, might sing 

along with an exacting world 

and its inner tin-heart difference.