by Nicole Callihan
At Port Manteau, I have taken off all my clothes and am swimming with the ligers. They were jackalopes to me, but now, the sun flares, and the melded world welcomes me. After the pregnesia, I lost count of my losses. What are we if we have no mind? If we are only glamping in these bodies, and are neither glitz of heart nor smog of soul, then are we? Do you know what it means to be free? Sometimes I think if I became a vidiot, I would find peace. If only I would let the television save me, it would. Still, I resist. Me in my skort with my spork. Irregardless of whether I am being ridonkulous, I need you to trust my attempts. If we had all the language in the world, what could we make with it? If I had all the words, and you knew all the words, then would I have you, and you me? Or would we only have this same desire for more? If we—and with we, I am already starting the collapse—if we collapsed and combined all the words— those rockabillies of demolition, frankenfoods of netizens, interrobangs of guesstimates—would we be any closer? The horizon is an asymptote is the horizon. See the shadow of our bodies there? You as me, me as liger, we, oui? In closing, please send foreign words and cheap wine. I am getting dangerously close to understanding.
NICOLE CALLIHAN (www.nicolecallihan.com) writes poems and stories. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Kenyon Review, American Poetry Review, Sixth Finch, Conduit, and elsewhere.