Taylar Christianson

THE EVIDENCE IS ANECDOTAL

         but it seems that I only kiss people who are anemometers,
pulling me                 into cupped hands and marking
my speed, my cardinality,

prodding me                                  as if walking with heavy step
pushing a dowsing stick over my prone body
limber in dirt,            
       testing the tremble of hazelwood                         at the

blue base of clouds and exclaiming
                                                            impure intentions. 
                                    lacking in clarity.

scientist and subject
    to a pattern I don’t                        observe, rain starting
             to smack against dry ground
landing sick in my teeth. I wish

   someone would measure                     me;
run the sway of copper along my        forked spine and
conclude
            that nothing’s wrong, that I’m good,              that I do not

falsify, that I do not          misinterpret,
that water runs clean                                  from their lips to mine

and I’ve done only                my best.        
that my claims are
unsupported                                                
but
not malicious,                       that I’ve due-
diligenced myself                 into the ground.


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