levitating on the toilet

thinking of my father

who pontificated once

about colonics.

everyone is walking

around disgusted

with themselves

he said, but we’re all


pink inside.

dad, why?


see, i’m always asking


for more information so


this is where you urge


my milking stop. urge


the orchestra quiet.
 

place a salty finger on the
 lips 

of the pulpit. 

finally shhhhhh me 

into the blue-black 

quiet of unknowing 

where I am counting

beans or shucking corn.

skinning rabbit looking


up to say i have no idea

how to — shhhhhhhh.

alone in the tar black quiet.

Noelle Armstrong is a poet from California. She writes about weirdo children, sticky friendships, queer persistence, mind warping, made-up rituals, evangelical madness, fun apocalypses, psychic fears, swan boats, ecosystem collapse, interspecies friendship, and comforts with a spike inside. 

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