by Olivia Somes
Angie has never mastered the technique
of ashing inside of ashtrays or getting the nozzle
inside the gas tank under five tries. Her whole demeanor
is a force field of klutzy-ness and untied shoe laces,
alarm clock mishaps, chili dog dipped blouses.
Her posture is half three legged chair
half Velcro swooping up undesirables
toilet seat covers, bird shit, wet paint signs.
Sometime during her insurmountable
birth a gravitational pull hacked her
from her mother’s womb and now
her life is all out of whack and scaffoldings
appear out of nowhere, shoes and socks can’t seem
to coordinate in pairs, elevator shafts devour
cellphones and ATM cards, traffic violations
magnetize towards her vehicle, computer keyboards
and liquid cups of anything are inseparable.
It takes her three licks to get a Tootsie Pop
stuck in the cleft of her breast and one near lick
for an ice cream cone to bungle her crotch.
If you found every set of keys she’s “misplaced”
you could open every portal in the universe.
She is a complete utter wreck
but she keeps barreling along in life never letting
embarrassment block the gates of her enthusiasm,
never avoiding her ambitions over
mustard stains or mistaken time frames.
She’ll trip up on the stairs to the podium
but only remember the award.
There’s nothing that makes me feel
more loved like the inescapable
demolition derby of her body,
that sends her wheeling into my arms
to relieve the agony, to make it all better again.