James Grinwis

In the potato, a very small axe.
In her mind, a tiny machine gun.
In the phone, a baby Grendel.
The horrible tsunami of 2004
killed over 200,000 people.
Nature has several varieties
of Trojan horse. The mystery
of being alive is like a bra
around a breast or a neck.
My son draws a robot alien for me.
My daughter a gigantic heart
with a corkscrew face.
A sign that says “Yogurt.”
Another sign, “Welcome to Idaho.”
Another, “Put Your Sign Here.”
You say you are from there
but you are also here, see.
Waiting for stuff to pass
on the icy crosswalk
which could be the world
or what’s left when the walk
gets bubbly. Like there are bubbles
flying into the divorces, lifting
the ex-spouses up
past the blasts of exhaust
to rocket into cinnamon sticks
melting in a pot of tea
a happy someone stirs
with seductive wrist turns.
My head deconstructs
a dating site, whipping untruths
into goofy gems
because things like this
are scientific, corny, toys
that need new batteries
after each use.

James Grinwis is the author of The City From Nome (National Poetry Review Press) and Exhibit of Forking Paths (Coffee House Press). His poems appear in a wide range of literary journals. He co-edits Bateau Press with Ashley Schaffer and lives in Northampton, MA.