(after Liz Phair)
In spring I know
what you think of me.
I only ask because the frogs
are keeping me awake all night—
little entertainers. I tell the mockingbird
that she’s singing my song.
This might be a religion now,
head heavier by the hour.
I remove my organs
and put them on a shiny platter.
What are the odds
that I survive another summer?
I unroll this country from its
protective plastic veil,
try to explain that we can’t continue
like this, in these bodies.
The blood in me is thin and red
and my ass is getting fatter by the minute.
I see your linen suit—how many moths
have chewed at this resolution?
I don’t know if you understand truth
anymore and that
is a rough distortion
for legislation.
Until death we roll each other up
in emails and house bills and I wonder
what your body has been denied.
Is your head heavy in your bed?
Do you bear witness
to what you will not cure?
I tell the mockingbird my song
is changing. She replies—so is hers.
In June the May flowers
turn brown and fall into the grass.
I still know what you think of me.
You roll it up in plastic.
Toss it anywhere.
Pretend it can belong to you at all.
E. Kristin Anderson is a poet and glitter enthusiast living mostly at a Starbucks somewhere in Austin, Texas. She is the editor of Come as You Are, an anthology of writing on 90s pop culture (Anomalous Press), and her work has been published worldwide in many magazines. She is the author of nine chapbooks of poetry including Pray, Pray, Pray: Poems I wrote to Prince in the middle of the night (Porkbelly Press), Fire in the Sky (Grey Book Press), 17 seventeen XVII (Grey Book Press), and Behind, All You’ve Got (Semiperfect Press). Kristin is a poetry reader at Cotton Xenomorph and an editorial assistant at Sugared Water. Once upon a time she worked nights at The New Yorker. Find her online at EKristinAnderson.com and on twitter at @ek_anderson.