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.