Come Trust Me

Cecily Iddings

You’ll get used
to it. You’ll say
I know what’s up, hell
yeah, like cross-dressing
or separating green glass
from clear, I’m more
expert today than yesterday.
Why are zombies
better scream-getters
than the blob is,
I agree, a question
only sort of
going nowhere new,
even for a deep thinker
like me, and the living
room will overfill
when they come home.
I can go home
too where the couch is comfy
and knick-knacks appear in
normal order
mostly, though stranger
after the streets asunder
to which I become
I am trying
and trying not to surprise you.
I am promising
the closed lily
you squeamishly regard
puffy as a drowned finger
will open soon
and be okay
until liver spots
develop and parts
start to fall.