THE SWISS THIN IMMIGRANT

shrinking in a wash of coffee

touched nothing but

the odd square caramel (and hairy

illustrated men)

 

 

Distressing, yes, yet we said

nothing, knowing it would only

snip the wrong wire

and blow us

to the tip of liberty’s pointy iron tiara

 

 

Her mother died

of the selfsame thin

in addition to cigarettes

 

 

Vexed at the end, an effect, said

the doc

of brain starvation

weighing no more than those

odd square caramels

we’d watched her pop

go boa-like down her throat

 

 

Tomorrow?  Grocery shopping

 

 

(From Plum Stuff; first published in Quarterly West.)