Involuntary Power

She managed the fall to sleep
with only the mild injury of an ache that faded
and sharpened and faded finally fully away
until once again it echoed
as she found herself looking for a safe
landing in what was sometimes
but not always,
not even usually,
a fall so daunting she never reached bottom
but drifted back and forth
until the ledge from which she had been trying
to fling herself
provided a settlement for her heels
and she stood,
angry at the weakness of this gravity
or her own involuntary power of flight,
and turned and walked
the day's burning surface.

The Miracle Kills Thousands

Waiting for the drug to take effect
I forget which one --
the one that brings sleep or shakes it,
the one that stabs a quiet light into the muttering darknesses
or breaks the light into crawling fragments,
the one that makes my legs ache
or hushes the complaints of wronged muscles.
Am I anxious, too ready for what
this drug will accomplish, please if only and hurry?
Am I sure I took it,
was it necessary?
It was necessary.
There is no antidote.
Industries on either side of the law
invent potions a body needs,
a mind.
The answer will come to me
on little cat feet,
clawed, damp, and well traveled,
and, once here, it will -- whatever something.
The miracle kills thousands.
A molecule changes the color of the tongue.

Whether of Rhododendrons or Pox

Once upon a time a time was
well-grounded in the eventuality
but then the second came around with oiled pistols
and things of moment took the opportunity to disengage
from their blood-feast
and whine off among the rhododendrons.

You never know, announced the certifying board,
having gone through their criteria with a fine toothed comb,
in each instance finding a few shy nits in the teeth,
mostly translucent but one red, one a shimmering emerald,
none having grandness of size as to be fixable with even the most hair-thin needle
to cork as an exhibit,

lesson to future nit-generators
either on how to produce or how to avoid,
so, collectively, the board threw up its hands,
which, like midshipman's caps, tumbled through the balmy summer noon
clueless about flight
and the announcement concluded thus:

You never know what the future may overrun
that has been peacefully tending a garden
whether of rhododendrons or pox,
or whose mouth will be shot off, half-cocked,
when the red-combed herald
tips back his head opening his throat,
letting it all hang,
Christmas light string of hiccups from barracks to barracks.

Good thing they put themselves on record,
the turning deserving turnips amplified,
pumpkins too pretty to face the knife,
smiles like peas.