| Lucy Biederman
The Party of No
Grape-shaped grapes, each destroyed a little
Where it came off the stem. The moon is
Whatever, never Minneapolis-bound.
The pillow tracts on his face won't fade until
After he's already dead. Hello,
cat. Lie still under his hand for a sec.
Nothing's different and
Nothing's different, until it's broken
So entirely it's past recognition.
Desire-lined pit of desire, the minute
What's in his hands is, it's in his hands no longer.
Bowl full of moon on every plate in Denver,
The whole field of his stance couldn't flatten
A single chord. Spilled grapes roll
Around the kitchen table and
Nothing's even nothing enough
To be entirely deficit, so he just keeps going,
Tired but too unbroken to change.
Grace-tinged grapes, perfect at the supermarket
But bruised a little in transit. Between the fictional orchard
And the dead bowl in a living room in Chicago,
Oh they'll get a little taste of what it will
Be like to be eaten. No,
Grapes, the thing about this place is
Little's given and
Less is expected. So. No knowing if
Your entire self ever made it, no such luck, no way.