Gary Gildner


Statistics say the heart is a long-stemmed glass
you happen across after the party has busted up,
that red wine crusted over the lip, the kiss
you once felt down to you toes, down where
the minnows poured themselves into a giant silver drop

Statistics say we are sprouting stiff black bristles
in all the places where we used to brush

Statistics say we will break six geranium pots
in the seventh year, on the morning of the eighth
you will catch yourself boring a hole
above the old one, the one that never filled up
standing on slivers of wishbones

Statistics say the bears in the zoo
scratch and yawn but they won't sleep with you

Statistics say no matter how many bottles you toss in the water,
no matter how many loops you scoop, the milkpods you puffed
out your cheeks for, flying and flying,
are gone, along with the grandpas
pulling covers over their chins

Statistics say you will quit walking barefoot
the summer your name disappears from the sand

Statistics say please or listen once too often
and then they forget and say it again,
and we always hear them, that's the wonderful part,
and then we forget and they repeat it, slowly,
only we are bending closer to the mirror by now
arranging something we want just so

Copyright © 2012

Schuyler W. Huck
All rights reserved.

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