Raw Goods Inventory
by Emily Rosko
Oh， clouds that do not look like cherubs， move over！ My heart
isn‘t big enough to include you. The crows shit on
my car every morning， such
gratuitous little fellows—the things I never asked for. Oh， unrecognized
genius， the modest beauty wasting from
illness， the good-kid-turned-bad. Failing
grade， summer heat. Oh， row of desks I loathed sitting at. In
school， we hatched chickens from an incubator， eggs
in rotation， the chicks deformed. One
with thin chest skin and no ribs—the organs sludged
and its cheep-cheep cries. The animals my mother made me
return—the rabbit， the toad， the slug. Oh， child
tossing a ball alone！ The dandelions are systematically doused
with chemicals—the chemicals you‘ll sniff
as a teenager， the brain the unrepining side-kick.
Dear sister whom I cannot relate to， I surrendered my popsicles
to you！ Friend who kept my videotapes. Ex-lover，
you fall so clumsily through old poems. Book， you
looked better on the shelf！ Oh， the philomaths are paraphrasing
other people‘s theories， the same dribble！ Numbers and words，
teleological trinkets that can‘t retain the world. Over
a thousand monarchs frost-nipped in Mexico—untranslatable
odor. Oh， sex-drive that won‘t be active forever！ Oh，
old woman I will someday become！ Take stock now， I say， use
your flexibility. Stomach stay flat， breasts don‘t droop any time
soon. Oh， body， you were once small
and resilient—you could shimmy through
tight places. Mind， you were sparked； heart， uninjured. I am
such a thing. Lazy day. Oh， wizened hickory，
I too grow out of myself.
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