12, and so many to go

The Conversation Redirects Itself

Let’s not talk of love or chains or things we can’t untie.

Let’s talk instead about the world as a place to fall asleep

and link pinkies and promise to do nothing to disturb the sleep

of a woman about to give birth.

And talk sideways, about the diorama in the Museum of Natural Science

of a boy who died of pulmonary tuberculosis two thousand years ago

and how they discovered him with the bison hide still tucked around

his wasted body.

(let’s not talk about who tucked it, and if his mother was inconsolable)

Why don’t we talk about Norma Jean, and shooting stars

and how you can tell some things are going to crash and burn,

you just don’t know how.

We used to talk about dugongs and Falkland foxes and passenger pigeons,

we don’t anymore.

Instead, we talk about the Violent Femme and

take ten for everything, everything, everything

and the hitch of hope in your chest that feels like kickdrum and bass,

in the best way.

Let’s talk about those uncivil and unstable creatures

who are permanently banned from the zoo,

the bad influence girls who need their warmth a little less metaphorical

(duvets and hot water bottles, even in California).

The conversation redirects itself.

The things we don’t discuss are as powerful as the things we do,

There is so little left to be afraid of.

The city’s asleep and the world is ours. Come, see and be conquered.