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My Cosmos (2nd Ekphrasis of the Pan Suit) Joyelle McSweeney

At the brown curled edges, I reached for my brothers. Who seemed golder for their trial, yet pitiful, bound in globes. At the tawny lobes that flashed beneath the skirt of my mixed double I sighed and flipped the shuttlecock free of the arena. And flapped away on nylon wings to my den of smokes and mirrors:

a highrise. A cataracting machine and a wheel of paper white as a Nereid’s thigh it turned over and over. I flung my limbs in my trademark louche pose knee on the top rung hip on the file. My elbow splayed grazed a stack of hard plastic. Those gold chips flecked my own eyes. No need

for a vehicle but the day was endless, as the sun revolved on my back. I pulled like a bull with a good thing coming. I never came back. I came back. Blew a rough note down to my cousin, still nursing on the dump. On the low shelf: clogs, cabbage nodding in a box by which I mean the god I evicted from an Irish song leaving in the drinking and the perfect breasts and the billboard that threatened to spill both onto the interstate. I drove and dwelt awhile in the midriff of the land and then

I folded the interstate away with my titles. I packed the porkchop into my three ring razor I packed the microfilm into the six chambers of a tomato tomato. Which sweet rind will ripen beyond ripeness in the heatpackin’ district of the mind. In the closed apartment. In the funnybone twang. In the crushed-queer sixpack. In the engorged tsetse nose. In the fightin’ mad. In the ring of bitemarks. In the hydra-coiled stove. In the alcolyte slang. In the mug. In the makeupcase. In the hold of the westbound bus. In the duffle bag in the hold of the east boundbus. In

the spoiling turkey folds. On the back of the turncoat, his own sweaty target. In whose sleeping alkali. In whose clone. In the letdown of whose getup. In the babe whose first woid is boid. In that voidy vowel. In that full-of-noise. In that split-lip grilled screen of the stereo speaker whose pulp, the black-hatted patriarch, revolves, before picking the least pate to strike time on in the mechanism over the sunblent square. Into the freezerblunt square. Into which is given to explode

the mindbulb the stolen yellow Datsun in the furthest park-n-fly lot of the mind the bleeding pigment of all fat flags the endgame when the screen dissolves and the code falls out like a disowned breast the permutated backbone rank the truncheon falls of the fish police back for vengeance in their sways and means in their swank green glade in their green green galleons of bone