Mike Sikkema

 

 

Everything Is Already Something Else


We fail
to falter at the lure,
to open fire on
the sprung trap.
Our fathers were
a few hundred strung
puppets trench popped
to betray cannons,
our grandmothers
sleepy hunters in
church squinting hard
at lady's hats.

 


Everything Is Already Something Else


They converted
the sacred
shell into an
ash tray, love-mumbled
the cover song,
were made
to owl. To ring
the changes in
this cored out book,
branch means gill.
A prophet from
the bird alarms threw
everything into her
voice, enough
to carrion.

 



Everything Is Already Something Else


In bone
and blood camouflage,
a stack of early Venuses,
identically faceless.
Out of a little spine song.
We see prisoners
hitchhiking, waving soap
box guns and smiling on
their way to
the county fair to pull nails
from the secret
inside pocket, to mimic
the gimmick, win
the prize.



Everything Is Already Something Else


Decades ago
darning needles pored
up the gypsum
giant, and still
the authentic forgery sells
for twice what
a sand swindler
can get
selling land back
to itself.