by Amy Holman
Let me be your dust mite,
a fetish carved
of turquoise and gut-wound tight.
Let me be your dust mite
beneath the weight of you, my rite, your fright,
my fetish; I'm starved.
Let me be your dust mite,
a fetish carved
into down and innerspring.
Let me be your
tightly wound dinner fling
into, down and inner—spring
me with all your might, sinew, curve, and swing.
I am seeking when I'm hiding, or
into down and innerspring,
let me be your
private dick--or eye
in the sofa spud. I will grow on you.
I've cut your moorings, haven't I?
Private? Dick or eye,
I sight my target, you are mine. Try
escaping, imploring. True,
private dick--or eye--
in the sofa, spud. I will grow on you.
Amy Holman has been playing around with current news and/or headlines for a couple of years, here and there, including publications in Failbetter, Archaeology (online), Unpleasant Event Schedule, Rattapallax, Shade, and soon, on the Red Morning Press web site. She is the author of Wait For Me, I'm Gone, which won the 2004 Dream Horse Press annual chapbook prize. She writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction and work freelance as a Literary Consultant out of her tiny apartment in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.
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