NewPoetry

Adam Sol

It takes seven gallons of oil
to make a tire, which means
it’s pointless to beg you
to love me like you used to.
I am wearing thin, like
an old tire haha, when the road
gets cold I slip. But I know
exactly what I believe.
Voters will waver over water,
and wasps will infest the eaves
if you don’t poison them with foam.
When I roam around trying
to tell people all the urgent
things I know they nod and smile,
nod and smile. They don’t know
me from Adam, but that won’t
stop them from using their
littlest words to settle me down.
Would you fly over the moon
to meet me on the mountain?
A brave bird has left her branch there
and the buds have burst
into hallucinogenic berries. Somewhere
I have never travelled
there is a chicken who wishes
she were a fish. But the fish
has seen tires, has drunk
the oil, and knows how the sea
is changing. Would you rather
be a chicken whose brief light
is crowded and constrained?
Or a fish who goes everywhere
and hates everyone and doesn’t blink?
Either way you will be a delicious
lunch and I have craved you
since before the world was wet.