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Three Poems
by Elizabeth Wilcox



Information Age

In half as much time
we will have grown wings. Not angel

ones, with the white and the
genderless and the do not

be afraid, but wings
like an owl’s. Wings to send you

into the sides of mice.
Our backs may ache

but no one can dispute
the twigs. The doors of our houses

oaky and close, the insects
in our beds. And we are not

satisfied. We look at ourselves
in the mirrors and pale,

feathers dropping onto our bathmats
like broken wheels.

What we eat when it gets dark

Bologna earned national attention.
Minimal orchestration was required
to get people crying. They wiped
their cheeks in tunnels
full of sandwiches. Soon, people began

mashing themselves together
to achieve a smooth and even
consistency. Their faces ran together
like mustard. And where were you?
High below the noise of the fans,

you waited. You knew
the florescent lights would be turned on
soon. You chewed some wheat bread
very quietly. You swallowed
under duress.

The day after I was alone

The day after I was alone in the kitchen. The mailman dropped off the catalogs and it was me and the vacuums and the wet towels. There were so many ways to wring them out. For example: into those already ripples, their walls. Over the other ocean a girl many years ago cried in a bathtub. The lizard that crawled through the ceiling fan swirled around her legs in bloody almost cubes. And if you touch me do I not. And if we were together in the great big theater with the starfish and the guillotine. Just look how clean this place is.