[…]


R.M. Cunningham

Encasement and Fog

When the rest of the world was yours & you
could see through marbles of fishbowls—
without algae in your eyes;
you blinked & were moist with yourself.

You call those times the Best.
Done up and gone—
it’s easy to look back & say that’s All.

How big are you now?
Dried & pruned of love’s stupid dew?
Are you shellac for empty vases?
Or is your shell a soft beacon for those
who live in fear of being Close?
Who can be close to you?
You always call checkmate.

Your fishbowl feet go lightly;
tramping dirt & rocks that you Damn.
Ain’t nothin’ gonna break you again.

Drips echo their hollow—
keeping hearts free from mold.
Empty sun just mitigates
barrenness; when there’s nothing else to be told.

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