TinkerX

(it being I)
with the child scooped out
and replaced by a light-
bulb, the three-way kind
but force fed into
a standard one-way
reverse threaded socket
that’s hanging instead
upside down from a thread
pulled up, ever up,
by centripetal force
so it’s swinging (I’m swinging)
we’re swinging, I guess,
which accounts for the mess
I’ve made of the blessing
it’s my turn to say
how thankful we are
for the food and the day
but I’ve left out the parts
about giblets and lungs
(was it eyeballs and hearts?)
they’re all scooped out, too,
and ground up
ever up
so it’s sausage, ok,
for supper, in omelets,
breakfast food? fine
when we dine
upside down
on a thread
with our feet when we eat
hanging over our heads
and I’m just
shaken up,
hollowed out
like a ball
coated with images, sounds and an
army of small, tinny samples of musical themes,
business cards, coffee stains,
mens’ magazines

I’d like to stop turning
I’d like to be filled

there’s a child
I remember
who was solid
chocolate
still

I remember the wind on a cold, autumn day
I remember the moon on sea gone blue-grey
I remember the way that we kissed on the stairs
I remember the taste of sweat in your hair
I remember the simple rhymes read from a book
I remember the choice to dive
into something different
looking
for a broken thing to fix
or ringing bells to summon drinks
from serving girls in tight, short skirts

I remember wanting it to hurt

what is "hollow?"
but memory of inside
now turned inside-out to see
where heart, lungs, eyes
now flung, spun, dashed
sent spinning outward, onward,
far far far beyond
beyond our sight and sound
perhaps to crash
perhaps to sputter silently
and melt into the dusty ground

what was in is out
what was here is gone
what was heart is lost
what was one
is spun