Kiki Volkert

there are icebucketloads of
places for polite conversation
and none of them are good for
talk of future and past lives

bound by a body, dripping

dip on your collar with

no mention of celestial proportion
on your business card,

dropping crumbs of dumb
conversations on your lap with
no sign of squiggly signatures
on important paper,

wiping empathy on a napkin
and sulking your

centuries of censored stories
into a limp hand full of
contained liquid and bones