Poem
Dana Levin
Above the Neck
Above the Neck
Above the Neck
Little winks from the tips of silvered tools –you sat in stars.
Garaged dark.
And a skein of bandages on a little stool.
Wrapped you up, my mental pupa –
On a metal folding chair.
And all around you synapses
pop and flare –
I’d been taking the walk called
Head Bobbing on a Font of Blood –
I couldn’t believe I had legs
as the ditch streamed by –
spider-egged in a web of squares: chair, house, mind . . .
Iron-press of your mummy-suit.
Head free
to swivel and churn, if you could
break your neck
and be alive, head a lit house
sweeping its beam
through the constructed real, I
tied you up –
inside my mind –
where you’re sweating now, fisting under the bands –
Salt in your eye, can’t lift a finger.
What use had I for hands.
© 2004, Dana Levin
Poems
Poems of Dana Levin
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Above the Neck
Little winks from the tips of silvered tools –you sat in stars.
Garaged dark.
And a skein of bandages on a little stool.
Wrapped you up, my mental pupa –
On a metal folding chair.
And all around you synapses
pop and flare –
I’d been taking the walk called
Head Bobbing on a Font of Blood –
I couldn’t believe I had legs
as the ditch streamed by –
spider-egged in a web of squares: chair, house, mind . . .
Iron-press of your mummy-suit.
Head free
to swivel and churn, if you could
break your neck
and be alive, head a lit house
sweeping its beam
through the constructed real, I
tied you up –
inside my mind –
where you’re sweating now, fisting under the bands –
Salt in your eye, can’t lift a finger.
What use had I for hands.
Above the Neck
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