The whole world in a neighborhood,
blooming this and that. My legs
numb from lying horizontal
on the concrete slab posing
as a stoop. Nearly rotten
strawberries in a cast-off bowl
beside a statuesque rabbit
on the lawn. I had circled him
though he refused to come to feast,
avoiding accidental poisoning
by human contact, a fear, or something
unrevealed in his frozen black eyes.
This day I guess God made, hotness
and locals flicker by the fence
while I number the deaths
I’ve known of late.
I turn myself sunward
but buildings grow taller
and obstruct, taking away animals––
clouds––mirages of not sane houses.
My work uncoils midday,
no more or less disturbed when
another teenaged body-filled car
rolls down the brick laid street
voluptuously with its amplified bass
sending catbirds sporadic
towards phone lines.
I pace without lifting a limb.
I make myself useful.
Evana Bodiker is a poetry MFA candidate at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Her work appears in Columbia Journal, Frontier Poetry, Tin House Online, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in Iowa City, IA and North Carolina.