Fliddly Flart (or Beshill My Heart)

No paperclips in the house to bind
these writer’s runaway words, so
the recycle bin fills and I’m staring at reticence
moulding and thinking someone sees colors
like I do.             Fliddly flart, the Fleet Foxes
sound like a soggy taco feels
and a thumbs down for any fox
is like starting a dream job in retrograde.

Tonight I saw myself in the mirror as the fox
printed on the platter hanging above my kitchen
sink. A little skinny. A little sketchy. Subtle.

It’s the fox you found and flew with across
New Mexico, Texas, and all those in between
states of bibles, backwoods, and blue laws–
bubble-wrapped, surreptitious fox on a plane
to hide under the tree.          Beshill my heart,
this plated fox is the white pony
of her flower-lined world,
line-sketched queen of gravity.

Tonight I saw myself in the mirror as the fox
printed on the platter hanging above my kitchen
sink. A little skinny. A little sketchy. Roguish.

 

This poem is the result of a discussion with a friend about needing motivation to write. At one point, I said, “Give me a title and I’ll write you a poem” not thinking they would actually blurt out a title right then–much less one I had no clue what it meant. I was caught off-guard, but knew I had to do it. I gave myself a day to produce something. Tonight, I made myself a tequila drink, turned on some music, and this is what came out.

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