No Sonnet
No
Civil War Sonnet. No sex reassignment surgery sonnet.
No
Black sonnet. No climate change sonnet.
No.
No
crossed out Unitarian Universalist sonnet.
No
African American sonnet. No girly sonnet.
No
boyish lip gloss sonnet.
No
crime spree sonnet. No egret sonnet.
No
machete sonnet. No.
No
adorable sonnet. No iron-on patch sonnet.
No
Crimean War memorabilia sonnet.
No
Greek laurels sonnet.
No.
No
consignment store sonnet.
No
global diamond store sonnet.
Into the House of Florida
You
are my ounce, my octagon, my omen, ornate
as palm leaf shadow curing the
chlorinated waters
of the
nuclear family’s backyard swimming pool.
They
own the world, do they not? You are my
zero sum game,
my tribe, sailboat catching its cloth lip
on the torn horizon.
You
are my minus sign, my time line, mathematic as water stored
in a cube of antimatter. You open the
cube
and poof—the genie, wearing a powdered wig,
is out.
You weigh organism. You weigh organ. You
oscillate.
You
climb into an oasis and come out as-is.
As is always.
You dream of Nazi-werewolves. I don’t
listen. You drive to Orlando.
To Tampa. It is night. The bats’ sonar systems
pulsate below our ozone, our little
homeostatic zones
like blood or home.
Sandra Simonds is the author of three books of poetry: Warsaw Bikini (Bloof Books, 2009), Mother Was a Tragic Girl (Cleveland State University Press, 2012), and a book of sonnets tentatively called House of Ions (Bloof Books, forthcoming, 2014). She is assistant professor of English and Humanities at Thomas University in Thomasville, Georgia. You can visit her at Sandrasimonds.com.
Hell yeah, House of Florida, can I get another...
ReplyDeleteFlo Rida..... yesssssss
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