Das naß, warm Herz drängt sich die Lippen ein.
(The wet, warm heart pushes in past the lips.)
When you speak, the handlebars fall off my chest.
I become feathers scattered from your voice
A thousand separate things that could not fly
But together could maybe make a pillow.
Anyone can make avocado toast
Even a man who has no hands
Because he has donated his hands
To a charity for people without hands
For which he would now be eligible.
This is me trying to tell you about the hot stone
In my mouth. Sloppy breakfast.
No better than anyone else could do
But I’m doing it now
Even if you’re not awake.
Cooper Wilhelm’s work has appeared or is forthcoming from Rust + Moth; Flapper House; Yes, Poetry; Arc; Reality Beach; The Opiate; and elsewhere. My microchapbook on necromancy, Whitman, and breakups, Klaatu Verata Nikto, came out from Ghost City Press this summer. He also writes poems on postcards and mails them to strangers he looks up in phonebooks at PoetryAndStrangers.com, and hosts Into the Dark, a talk show about witchcraft, on Radio Free Brooklyn.