Kim Addonizio (July 31, 1954 -)
Like a haunted river no bridge wants to lay itself down over.
Like a taxidermied grizzly in the student union.
You cry at a frequency only subatomic insects can hear.
That time with him in Houston.
Sometimes you flame into a scary flower.
An eruption of coherence in the postmodern seminar.
You stand in a shallow creek and your reflection floats slowly downstream without you.
Alcohol is your emotional-support animal.
The fan hums erratically.
An unclaimed suitcase of miniature toiletries, burst open on the baggage carrousel.
Like an amoeba without an e-scooter.
An extra in an epic battle scene, trampled by a non-Equity horse.
You’re a red-breasted flute, but everyone else is a dowel.
A Zen koan growing in the White House Rose Garden.
Sun-damaged curtains in the parlor of an abandoned friendship.
You’re the queen, but you’re a bee being swept into the pool’s filtration system.
Like a version, touched for the very last time.
Spooky piano music rising from the dishwater.
You wake up alone to a bird reciting Keats.