We thought we might be able to close
the school for people with pieces missing
for the summer but no one would graduate,
they wouldn't put on their black capes
and throw their mortarboards in the air.
More and more kept showing up, partially,
obviously worthy of admission. One
of our most promising freshmen didn't have a skull,
his brains held together by, you guessed it,
duct tape. Duct tape occupies a significant
portion of our curriculum in the school
for people with pieces missing
as does reading original poetry aloud
and being rewarded with grapes.
Often students are given exercises
like imagining they're broken canyon birds
or not using the letter I
or holding your breath until you pass out
then writing rapidly as you regain consciousness.
It's all about coming back.
Some students appear intact
but have supped on the pomegranate seeds of Dis
to speak mythologically,
and they never come the whole way back.
Their color is wrong
like grass under a tarp.
Sure, they use cutlery without incident,
they don't need special vaults to compete
but they're the most rewarding pupils
even if they have to be told repeatedly
their dog died long ago,
the ones who think they can fly
because they have no shadow,
who never get old
and just keep sitting there after the barkeep
turns on the harsh everyone-out overheads,
their last call empty of all
but a slurry of ice, paper umbrella,
plastic sword. Try being a ghost of yourself
then tell me your mind burns
for no reason,
tell me the world is radioactive
for no reason.
Why else would you come here
so dangerously without your space helmet,
so recklessly afield with the coyotes,
looking for bluets for your wreath?
