Slingshots will have their way

Remove it, the middle of me. And bring it over there swiftly, on a metal table with knives spread to shape. Carve it into something we can be proud of, a featherless holiday bird. Rest it next to my breach. On fire, spitting at my profile like the holiest war.

I only ever wanted the top and the toes, to arc my silhouette around the skyline we reared piecemeal, to keep the promise of the most attractive western city behind each knee. I only wished two of three: the strength to stand without opening my mouth for even a taste; to peer away and net bumbled whispers right at the corner where everyone dispatches their favorite flavor.

In here, I am riding in the back of a pickup truck, wearing the Good Witch's slippers. So rouge for me to hop. Letting the funnel cloud winds ruin me. Here, under an umbrella, refined like scalloped potatoes. Buzzing for honey until I discover the notes are all out of key, past my fingertips. The most distant bull in the match. Spading my heels up the hill, then descending like a cavemouth, into the widest field of crop circles. Green teeming with Granada tea roses and fragrant dollops imitating crumpled hands, my greatest defense.