Frances Cannon
Human disturbance 666

Every flower I pick 
along our walkabout
is an excuse to touch 
you without touching you—
it’s like I’m kissing you 
through the stems of lilacs. 

One hand: black fingernails, 
preparation for drag, 
though you haven’t chosen 
to be a king or queen. 
Your lips are turning blue, 
not paint—cold summer night. 

I wake with a bad taste,
Dread, or something like it. 
The smell of black garlic
fermenting in the crock, 
I absorb it, sponge-like.
Meat thawing, melting blood. 

First, I read the news, then—
I get myself worked up
and fall down all the stairs,
bruising my rib and hip.
my nerves infect the dog,
who barks at the window.

There are certain visions 
I make mental notes for—
to describe to someone, 
to add to a poem—
heat lightning, fat racoon,
half-moon perched on a roof. 

Beaver slaps her tail once, 
twice, three times to warn me.
I’ll be gone soon enough,
but I bow my shoulders
to make myself smaller.