I bend it into a bow like a ribbon, not
a weapon for shooting arrows. I knot it,
not it, like kind of when you bend me,
I mean, my mind, how when I think I know
what I want to say, I don’t. Like that time
you bought me a scarf—leopard print—and
I said, Wait, that’s not me, that’s not what I will wear
into the evening. But then I thought how often
you buy Romeo & Juliet cigars and I watch
from afar because I love how you hold fire
in your lips, because I believe Shakespeare
had a soft spot for animal print, or maybe
I’m misremembering—there were two
gentleman, one dog. Several hedgehogs, one
tiger. And then I think how often I hold
my iPhone and never dream of it
because technology is both a ribbon
and a weapon, and I love how you feel
your lungs can carry the smoke
of a tragedy, two lovers who couldn’t figure out
the details, and loss is something
that could have been overlooked, like
the awkward scarf, the cough—don’t drink
the poison, forget the ball, put down the dagger—
kind of like turning the channel, walking out
and realizing the mourning dove has fallen
asleep on your patio furniture, the bird
means faith not death, it just wants us all
to know there are many ways to survive
with or without accessories, with the sound
down it looks like the newscasters
are saying, We’re all going to live.
Kelli Russell Agodon
Kelli Russell Agodon is the cofounder of Two Sylvias Press where she works as an editor and book cover designer in the Pacific Northwest. Her fourth collection of poems, Dialogues with Rising Tides, is forthcoming from Copper Canyon Press in 2021. See more at www.agodon.com.
