As in the square cordoned for storybook rhubarb, each furrow pillowed. As in to lose to memory’s short-circuit. As in the ribbon flying off when you open a grimoire, consequence tying me to the tracks. Ground plan or secret, noun or verb, plot’s pedestrian: I was born. I lived. I cried. I’m terrible at spackling holes. I’d rather ink horses with a wolf brush. The trouble with destination is that nobody loves a maze sown in kudzu. Forget what happened. Why write about plodding when it’s the after I’m after? I only liked ornithology for the field guide’s jeweled plates. My favorite poet said end with an image. In Bangkok’s gutted New World Mall koi bloom between a column and escalator. The page is a roofless ghost ship. A pool glinting orange. Plot’s just a daymare.
-- Karen Rigby is the author of Chinoiserie (Ahsahta Press, 2012). Her poems have been published in Bennington Review and Southern Humanities Review. She lives in Arizona. www.karenrigby.com