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shadow puppets :: greg wrenn

by on November 20, 2014

I’m a donkey
and you make me

I’m a camel you

never gave spit.
I’m a bedridden

Grandpapa reciting
a shit list,

asking the cosmos
for my teeth. I’m a quacking

bunny, a purring
greyhound nodding

at nothing in particular—as if
nothingness were my master

and could feed me—
then gazing above at a nail hole

I must pretend
is a bird and wholeheartedly

desire: now I’m
a pigeon flying up

the rough,
illuminated wall

till I disappear
into the ether, your knuckle-


Driven to self-regard
and melodrama,

I’m a fetus curling
into myself and my cartilage tiara

falls off, no one gasps.
I’m a bait shrimp

snug on a hook; a toaster oven;
a wastewater treatment

plant thousands
depend on; oh and the love child

(if forced to mate, if such zygotes
were possible) of a star-

nosed mole
and a pot-bellied pig.

I’m shadow that coughs,
spirit with

stubborn sores,
but whose

are your hands?
Turn away from the wall

and just look at them.
(I’m spittoon, you’re

spittoon, dirty
rawhide moth.)

Light another candle
and bray.


From → poems

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