Sandra Simonds
La Belle Damme Sans Papiers
Animal hires her deathbed
pyre of pine needles
adjacent to a plague that reads:
Here stood the Giant Redwood, Bianca.
We crossed the Bering Strait for this
in an orange gardening clog.
We ate ammonia fish and cooked
them in our chloride song.
She quivers long.
Her eyes, river long, drive the dolly
into the next blue screen century.
What’s next, century?
Give it to me. I am ready to climb
your Rockies, to wrap
the Vitamin A liver
in aluminum foil and wear
the snow paw of the polar bear
so that no one else can touch it.
Pass the torch, passport.
Add some chlorophyll to your green card
and then mix your backward backbone
with Miracle Grow.
These are the best seats I could find.
Here stands the auditorium of the I
drinking ice melt from
a canister of film.
My name is scrotum, Madonna,
Windex, tampon, Camp Electric Barb,
and I have a hard hat
made of jelly, crampons
welded to my gums.