THEM IN MACHINE
Cold weather numbs fish
with bones. Slows them down by making
the parts that give them form
rigid. I am thinking I must be a ghost
shoved in a metallic shoebox.
I can’t get my hands to push
the keys, small lobes of self-government
that click into place when I least
expect. I’m swimming
in my collared shirt. Will you stop
me? I’ve started calling myself
by what I want. The manual
is missing. Point at me
if you think it will be useful.
Jo Wallace is a poet from Indiana. They recently moved to the desert to join the Creative Writing M.F.A. program at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas.