The gross inconsequence of limbs

on a light rail almost touching,

almost being victorious

 

isn’t a holiday.

Your fireworks are on sale

inside your heart mansion.

 

I am the dismay experienced

when a leg is broken

for the second time,

 

when the moon hits your window

for the first.

 

Weak are the braids

we leave in to wed,

the spoons with which we

dine while dreaming.

 

If you combine the number of war heroes

with the number of times

nobody sneezed on a winter’s bus,

you will only know a fact that’s slightly untrue.

 

A paper bag only exists with something in it:

a pair of people with wings,

a snow globe purchased for no known reason,

inaction that isn’t yours to hate.

 

 

 

Eszter Takacs
is the author of The Miraculous Hysterical, forthcoming from Coconut Books in 2015. She is also the author of the chapbooks Together We Will Talk Right Down to Earth (The New Megaphone) and The Spectacular Crash (H_NGM_N Books). Her individual poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Salt Hill, Yalobusha Review, Forklift Ohio, Sonora Review, Alice Blue, Diagram, Word Riot, Smoking Glue Gun, Ghost Proposal, Coconut, Prelude Magazine, Hot Metal Bridge, Soft Blow, Sink Review and Inter|rupture.
Filed under: Poetry

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