Citizen to Citizen

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Divested of my objecthood, still I think it tender —

How Candide scrawled sweet Cunégonde’s

Name in the trees. Small porcelain selves, what to do

With the particularly cohesive dust we are?

Sol fecit means the sun made it.

Made it like my sister, crawling down the laundry chute

In a bid to elude cowboys and Indians.

My sister who becomes the geologist

Watching our grandparents’

Ashes as they catch in rhododendrons

Growing thick at Sandburg’s Lake.

At higher elevations, a loose dog becomes

Two crows stalking through a winter-bare field.

A woman spreading her legs becomes she’s asking for it.

A lucky penny and a pregnancy test become two

Falling stars, ten years later. Oh culture

Teaching us to pornographify the slightest smile.

Oh culture teaching us to point at our own

Bruised bodies and laugh —

Descartes said to start with doubt

In this country we occupy, whatever its terms.

A dancer aimed like a thunderbolt floats gently down.

Citizen, the sun made it. Meaning, it escaped.