Maggie May Ethridge

here, take this thread, its metallic fibers:
make a pretty thing. make it good. make it.
slice it through your heavy teeth,
make dirty, clean. loop it a hundred times
for brushed steel: do not drag up the leg.
straighten it like a child against the wall,
measure, take note. this is how you will be
remembered all year. fold it, put it away.
make it behave as jewelry, gleaming agate
eye, fat with silver pupil. make it.
tighten it into the hollowed wood, bring
the rough pulse of your pulpy fingertip
to its mouth: make it sing. make it.
throw it, a javelin, its sparking arc thrust
straight into the heart of that bird, that prey.
it falls from the sky:

let it land in your chest, collapse with
your hands wrapped tightly round its
hungry sun-hot mouth: pull it from you,
snap its neck: let the mercury gather
like a thousand silver fish quivering their sides:
make it a sure thing, that small death. make it.








I wrote this in a frenzy of emotion brought on by not knowing what to do with myself. This poem is about telling yourself what to do when there just isn't anyone else who can.