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My Process

Sometimes it's like pushing a wheelchair
of bones through the high-tide sand.
Like giving birth to an ostrich,
an ostrich with antlers that glows.
The sense there's something wrong and
not giving a hoot like going to church
to see what you can steal. Experimental
turn signal, neurotransmitter whim.
Mythologically, it's like by the time
Orpheus gets the message, it's obscured
by radiance having been delivered
by a trickster god. Of course,
the operatic head floats down the river,
decapitation making for a better singer
like a preying mantis. Zigzag
in a plaid forest, it's like lying
fully clothed under the motel covers.
Lavender spit, amniotic gin.
It's like trying to be a cube of light
undissolved in a bigger cube of light,
like holding your own brain and
wringing it out. The heart has nothing
to do with it. The heart has everything
to do with it, floating like a jellyfish
all bioluminescent sting, monkeys
ripping the car chrome off
while we tour the ruins.

Dean Young

West Branch

Winter 2017

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