← v5n2, Fall 2006
Poetry · Volume 5, Number 2

Motion Makes Us Cough

Emotion is more electrical,

our foot caught on the cord,

the blink we have to take.

Don’t explain, says the little bird.

Don’t tell who we are either.

Up and down the tarmac

fly guns in crates like sausages,

links of what we think we need.

Not me, not me,

chirps the chirper. But

there we are, yelling again,

or crying, or frying—

blinking. Manmade

fritz lies

behind muscle and even

brain. Why, that smile,

while not shocking, belies

emotion’s grounding: sic,

read as written, if we can,

with these dark plugs out.

We will still cough.