Carley Moore: Easy

This morning I turned on myself.
In the woods I called my leg.
“Don’t go. At least not far.
Stay to the left of me if not with me.”
But I felt it go as I talked about
throwing away the newspapers,
eating the fish that landed on the table,
and what to do when the light in the cave goes out.

This morning I turned on myself.
I said, “Your leg is a monster.
While you wait, your heart is at
the funeral for your leg. No matter.
Better for the heart who wishes to be leather-
to open up like an old shoe, and pull me in.
It’s easy for the leg to leave.
Without a box you are free.”

I turned on myself.
At the mouth of a cave, I saw my leg eating berries
and my heart shamelessly,
calling to my arm while
waving at a suitcase.

I could smell the small dark,
my leg and my heart.
“Let’s not,” I said.



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