Untitled by William C. Blome

Black kangaroos don’t hop, you said, even in
a spring so lovely as the one on the way, where I
can guess we’ll be induced to put away the tools
of suicide—jars of cyanide, cutlery, Berettas,
a clothesline—until the likes of howling, scowling
winter click into place once more. Black kangaroos
don’t hop, you said, because the foundry that cast ‘em
made ‘em so heavy there’s no permission to hop
granted anywhere within the gossip of physics.
Block kangaroos don’t hop, you said (though you
meant—I think—black kangaroos), because within
their tyrannic, metallic rigidity, freedom of movement’s
essentially repressed, and while we’re at it, you barked,
while we’re at it, you whispered, black kangaroos
don’t shop (though you meant—I think—well—maybe
not), because once New Year’s mittens grab our brains
as if they were two and totally duplicate handrails,
who then will need gifts in ribbons and wrappings,
oh who in this world will ever consider mumbling
formal wish-lists or prayers for Holiday dry goods?

William C. Blome
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such wondrous places as In Between Hangovers, Poetry London, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Phenomenal Literature, and The California Quarterly.

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