Tiffany Higgins

Issue #
February 3, 2014

Alligators are Weaving Their Nets for Us

Like you, I am walking

toward the sun. I have no

appointment save this.

Shall we gather at the

crossroads, juncture, nexus?

When you ate my tongue,

I opened wide. Said, Tug

a little to that side.

Directions are never done.

To build the house, they slathered

homemade bricks with dung.

As you sing, I want to stare

clear down into your tunnel.

That asteroid careering toward

the planet must weigh three tons.

Don’t worry, when it hits

our atmosphere, it will only sear

the eyelids and then we will

be bathed with a slow glow,

like a lime yellow light bulb.

Like you, I want to be won

over by alligators, who are weaving

nets for when we are gone.

Sea levels creep up the brink of Oakland.

Lift, lift up your toes.

I know. I know you know I know you know.

Still, we remain, rocking the cradle of day.

Minute after minute, I thirst for pleasure.

After work, I crave fun.

Like you, I only hunger to be stunned.

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