E. Kristin Anderson
Look Closely and I Will Fold Myself into a Coat Pocket
(after the X-Files)
Today I separate the head from the body pull myself apart as if
I haven’t tried before. This is an illusion of my own making--
I tie my shoelaces around my ankles as if they are made of your
breath. I write myself into the cliff side where I find dandelions
bright even in long December— a spot of yellow to pull me away
from home. A moment in which I can vanish. Behold:
I am not here. Even dandelions must get cold. Light falls
through the clouds and through me. Yes, Agent Scully knows murder
from performance art. But we aren’t meant to know how magic works.
The doves just are— a little song and a wing beat. Dana Scully
does not grace you with a smile. You aren’t owed one. The day
is a performance and possibly a crime. I will smile for no one
because it only ever begets some small violence and the dandelions
close like little mouths and I separate my head from my body
and nobody notices. I dress myself in black and ask you to observe
this little mutiny (a trick I will never explain) (a final act for
a keen audience). So Scully rotates her wrist again and again
and I hand her my fingers on fire and leave the manmade stage.
I haven’t tried before. This is an illusion of my own making--
I tie my shoelaces around my ankles as if they are made of your
breath. I write myself into the cliff side where I find dandelions
bright even in long December— a spot of yellow to pull me away
from home. A moment in which I can vanish. Behold:
I am not here. Even dandelions must get cold. Light falls
through the clouds and through me. Yes, Agent Scully knows murder
from performance art. But we aren’t meant to know how magic works.
The doves just are— a little song and a wing beat. Dana Scully
does not grace you with a smile. You aren’t owed one. The day
is a performance and possibly a crime. I will smile for no one
because it only ever begets some small violence and the dandelions
close like little mouths and I separate my head from my body
and nobody notices. I dress myself in black and ask you to observe
this little mutiny (a trick I will never explain) (a final act for
a keen audience). So Scully rotates her wrist again and again
and I hand her my fingers on fire and leave the manmade stage.
Biography
E. Kristin Anderson is a poet, Starbucks connoisseur, and glitter enthusiast living in Austin, Texas. She is the editor of Come as You Are, an anthology of writing on 90s pop culture (Anomalous Press), and Hysteria: Writing the female body (Sable Books, forthcoming). Kristin is the author of nine chapbooks of poetry including A Guide for the Practical Abductee (Red Bird Chapbooks), Pray, Pray, Pray: Poems I wrote to Prince in the middle of the night (Porkbelly Press), Fire in the Sky (Grey Book Press), 17 seventeen XVII (Grey Book Press), and Behind, All You’ve Got (Semiperfect Press, forthcoming). Kristin is an assistant poetry editor at The Boiler and an editorial assistant at Sugared Water. Once upon a time she worked nights at The New Yorker. Find her online at EKristinAnderson.com and on twitter at @ek_anderson.
|