And if we can’t invent physics, only
discover it. If every plane is named
after some outcast, man who calls
himself priest, prophet, king. How can
we ever award prizes? Didn’t we say
that physicists are allowed to bend
the rules? And if we can redefine
axes, turn each other just the way
we like, just the way that makes perpendicular
right. The way that makes you say yeah, then I can make
you say yeah, one more time—yeah.
Time isn’t a dimension for me anymore.
In this world nothing is true but few things.
One, we can bend ourselves to our liking.
But a bend is only a bend, not a stretch.
Two, we are made in an image
of holiness and viscosity. And we are not
made, but discovered. We are not prized,
but prizes. Don’t you know who invented you?
Discovered you? Can he make you say yeah?
I used to write poems about speeding
down highway 31, but I want to slow
it down. I want to stop at yellow,
go sixty on seventy. This car ride
won’t stop if you don’t want it to.
Turn your air off. Turn your wheel
softer. Don’t sing along to this one,
because, today we got vaccinated
for an infection that I thought only
girls got. I want a doctor to touch
my flesh, decimate
but say that I’m safe now. Your curls
can’t keep me from cervix or lice,
but maybe they can cure the disorder
Michigan’s notorious for. This car ride
isn’t stopping if you don’t break hard now.
I know your name’s the love-
child of a flower & a saint, but what’s
so holy about an agnostic
Joseph Felkers is a pushcart nominated poet who’s work has been recognized the Scholastic Art and Writing Competition and Princeton University’s Lewis Center for the Arts. He appears or is forthcoming in decomP magazinE, SOFTBLOW, and Rust + Moth, among others. He is a genre editor for Polyphony HS, a poetry reader and past mentee with The Adroit Journal, and an ice cream connoisseur at his local parlor.