The muscles in my neck are violin strings, I breathe
into them wish them to tell me something better
I know they are a declaration that I dwell in a place not meant
for me. I suck in my front and square up my back straighten out
my sides deny my curves
balance on the balls of my feet. All to fit
through that narrow groove, its edges sharp and cruel. It is
a manufactured world through which we move. Rotary blades
and ladder rungs, the metals upon which our hopes are hung
and yet our senses behold the false prophet. We see him
upon the stage each night magnifying our dreams
he urges us to climb and kneel and bend. He has machined
for us the circuitry of delusion. Only my laughter
strips him of his power tonight. Tomorrow he will prance again.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019