The Mother in space demands
that we all learn to read Hegel
in the original German.
She pours me a glass of lemon
grape koolaid and rubs
my eyes out of my head
but the sugar in the juice
is so thick in my body and veins
that they clump and scratch
my capillaries.
I feel the pressure in my fingertips
and the inside of my nose,
the part I push on to relieve stress.
A lonely doe in small grass,
perched roughly near the space commander,
is proximal
approximately wrapped in gauze
from bone to toe in shawls
of dead wasps, strips in equal length running up
deer thighs. Proximal to my soul, my essentiality.
This is a technique called “Relocating
The Issue”