By Michael J Pagan


Suppose we were telepathic?
The blotches the color of the headaches
Pallid brown blotches of disease like
A hermit crab named Turnpenny,
Loitering across a palm — he’s got
A fetish for obese women and I feel bad
For the guy somewhere he’d gotten a touch
Of sun — Perhaps the sun is what
I didn’t come to expect here
Like sand scrabbling out of a fist
Only then do you realize the hollowness
Within the curvature of your palm
And God — with his large and dusty feet
(creation is but a struggle) — said: I think
And we are now ready for electrocution
I’ll give it a day, the sun expendable
Like a frightened child left behind, crying
He told his body that window the told
With high cheekbones, warm-brown
Skin and a haze that hung over the city
Passed backyards alive with palms
And mango trees left behind
We existed once and formed a body
By the same unnatural gravity
Suppose then, if we were telepathic,
Here on the street among the pigeons
How awkward it is (a common game
Among tourists) the rest is just impersonation

Michael J Pagan is a graduate of Florida Atlantic University's Creative Writing MFA program. His work has appeared in The Rumpus, DIAGRAM, Spork Press, Requited, Verse and Diálogo.

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