Raw Goods Inventory

　　by Emily Rosko

　　 Oh， clouds that do not look like cherubs， move over！ My heart

　　 isn't big enough to include you. The crows shit on

　　 my car every morning， such

　　 gratuitous little fellows-the things I never asked for. Oh， unrecognized

　　 genius， the modest beauty wasting from

　　 illness， the good-kid-turned-bad. Failing

　　 grade， summer heat. Oh， row of desks I loathed sitting at. In

　　 school， we hatched chickens from an incubator， eggs

　　 in rotation， the chicks deformed. One

　　 with thin chest skin and no ribs-the organs sludged

　　 and its cheep-cheep cries. The animals my mother made me

　　 return-the rabbit， the toad， the slug. Oh， child

　　 tossing a ball alone！ The dandelions are systematically doused

　　 with chemicals-the chemicals you'll sniff

　　 as a teenager， the brain the unrepining side-kick.

　　 Dear sister whom I cannot relate to， I surrendered my popsicles

　　 to you！ Friend who kept my videotapes. Ex-lover，

　　 you fall so clumsily through old poems. Book， you

　　 looked better on the shelf！ Oh， the philomaths are paraphrasing

　　 other people's theories， the same dribble！ Numbers and words，

　　 teleological trinkets that can't retain the world. Over

　　 a thousand monarchs frost-nipped in Mexico-untranslatable

　　 odor. Oh， sex-drive that won't be active forever！ Oh，

　　 old woman I will someday become！ Take stock now， I say， use

　　 your flexibility. Stomach stay flat， breasts don't droop any time

　　 soon. Oh， body， you were once small

　　 and resilient-you could shimmy through

　　 tight places. Mind， you were sparked； heart， uninjured. I am

　　 such a thing. Lazy day. Oh， wizened hickory，

　　 I too grow out of myself.

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