Two-Minute Personality Test
By Jonathan Safran Foer
What’s the kindest thing you almost did? Is your fear of insomnia stronger than your fear of what awoke you? Are bonsai cruel? Do you love what you love, or just the feeling? Your earliest memories: do you look though your young eyes,…
you made me a natural disaster,
held hurricanes in your palms.
and breathed monsoons.
it’s okay. i don’t bruise easily.
i am survival kit.
i am 30 cases of bottled water.
box of matches.
the answer to someone else’s prayer.
DO YOU EVER WONDER HOW WE GOT HERE?
i think in questions only but tonight i am holding your eardrum in my palm.
does it feel wrong? you gave it to me first.
plucked it right out of your head and said “here.”
you are always doing things like this, giving me parts of you
but somehow it still feels like stealing.
i am not a saturday thief.
i am not prison full of box cutters.
i am not the ties on the train tracks.
i am holding your eardrum in my palm and somehow
you’re still not listening.
we know about science (read: life)
is at best a well-supported
your lips taste okay in the rain
two and a half glasses of shitty wine
i can bottle this rain storm
harbor it in between my rib cage
pretend the electricity is conducted by your fingertips
it has been raining for sixteen hours straight
and dear god
i hope it never stops
7/30 (after Jon Sands)
if the tips of my fingers were the tines of a fork,
i would only eat the cherry tomatoes from my childhood garden,
in the house where the yard set on fire.
if my kneecaps were cymbals,
i would march around the corner of 52nd & Maple,
and only let the locals sleep at night.
if my ribcage was the lock on your bike,
i would spend my winter rusting away on your side porch.
in the spring, my ribs would give way to your prying.
if the nape of my neck was a brand-new book spine,
i’d crack once under the weight of hungry hands,
and never open up again.
if my palms were the morning barista in the worst cafe Downtown,
i’d still love the smell of coffee
and i’d still write shit poems.
if my heart was a West Omaha townhouse,
i’d be empty most of the time
and never leave the porch light on.
if my throat was the waxing crescent moon,
i would only speak in i love you’s
and breathe easier every time i went home.
through the bombshell
‘it is only self-defense.
only makes you stronger.
when it will all
clear lines of defense.
we met in february’s throat
i noticed your smile was always too big
i tried to trap it between fingers
i spent a month praying myself whole again
worshipped at my altar
only to find you back again,
in the last pew
tossing pebbles at my feet