My thought machine purges me.
Huh. I thought a sort of sphere
you can step into. A clearing.
Sheer cotton twirling, that gold light,
skin depressions, cut to, light-up,
Cold cream cheek. She has a routine.
Hovering around slices of summer fruit
in thick plastic containers
waiting for a hand to move.
Submit to tight blue brushstrokes,
a place for the eye to land. I’m taking field notes
while holding my tongue. Orange flag
flipping around. Blood and hot wind,
dry wind, soft as the
scraps of your face
on the ground, unseen shadow.
Memory, flesh out my ears.
That’s the way I heard it.
Like a clown
in a polka dotted sack and water wings.
What does a clown do? Frown? Defecate
in its lover’s mouth? If I remember correctly,
what happens to me will
saturate my eyes and head. A cold gray oil
drifting down to my feet.
Lucy Blagg is a poet from Los Angeles, California.
You can reach her at firstname.lastname@example.org