A door is half dented with light.
The carburetor’s clogged with
Your music box stops each time
the ballerina’s arms cut glass.
I’ve made you a mannequin hat to match
your mannequin mask.
To begin where there’s no hair, a scar
snags a floating strand.
What looks like white is really sand
It’s silly now to ever wipe
the drop of blood from the alphabet.
Each eye is a helixed black hole.
Like Adorno, it inhabits more than one part
Arc of the angle looks almost to fall.
You can wear the two with nothing else.
Microwave ding the smell of plastic
melting closes your nose.
The drum’s high-hat, spider perched
on your shoulder. The hat box
from sick paste & used newspapers.
Handed it, chicly, to you in the ferment-
ing moonlight. Your black eyes
are ventriloquists. The saké on your raw
lips taste of rust.
Charles Kell is a PhD student at The University of Rhode Island and editor of The Ocean State Review. His poetry and fiction have appeared in The New Orleans Review, The Saint Ann’s Review, IthacaLit, The Pinch, and elsewhere. He teaches in Rhode Island and Connecticut.
See more poetry from Charles tomorrow.