The Grip of the Apron String

Kathleen Ossip

Why so fierce! This reaction to, response to,

her knees, important as Rushmore.

Let me explicate, I begin. Then I spit.

A spurt of attention yields up

me and Keats, iris to iris. Oh

World of Grownups, tense and shiny, give me a hot rub.

The cornfields are a scourge. The breast of the country browns. The bladder fills with droplets. The measures load with notes. The songs are all a swindle and one day

you won’t have the pleasure of breathing.

A flare of temper, wonderful and true,

yields up Have I told you lately, then She will not die.

Dear God, rescue her

or she won’t be rescued.

Her breath a flint, born to the lifespan of a wasp.