Miranda Dennis


  Sleepiness has kept me dead to this,
  arms thrust back
  in memory of martyrs
  and helicopters alike.

  I have now pulled myself
  into a small ball, readily
  available to be crammed
  into a pottery kiln, an automatic
  that will shut itself off if faulty,
  singing, "Daisy, daisy" and
  crying to itself one last time.
  I envy such finality
  and efficiency.  (You see,
  I have learned a lot after all!)

  I cannot even ball myself up
  right, not quite fetal enough
  for sympathy or loathing.
  It's not tight or circular,
  the etching of pi
  lost long ago on the curve of my knees.
  They cannot be pulled any higher
  to my chin. The bones refuse
  to give like cartilage
  into some sort of human pie.

  My body does somersaults
  and airborne flapping
  when you say, "Jump."
  When you say, "Multitask,"
  I also whistle while I work.
  And when you say, "Improve
  your attitude," I do this with
  a smile until I am nothing
  more than a holy vessel,
  ready to be canonized,
  or glazed and burned
  at the stake.

Location: Montgomery, Alabama
Email: mirandadennis@hotmail.com
Publications: Stirring, Published in Graphophobia Literary Magazine

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