Untitled [excerpt]
My abilities are felt as a lopped refusal
to bear. Trumpet lily in the churchyard– what
do I do with it? Please obsess me
way past utility– past taking half flashes
I am kind and non-functional but I do
shade quietly, as a timid asterisk
on the giddying world, the dimension
available, with my metaphorical pencil
It happened: earthly things now hover above me
pencils and curling irons, goldfish and bolts
my jacket, her purse, the entire “administrative
modernist” style high school, floats– I reach
for the cup and I squeeze my own hand
in reversal invented by a wish for more time
with the thinning of tasks to their lightest weight
I hardly know what to do with that flower, or
how long it takes to sit through an hour
in momentum’s perfection the flute plays itself
I believe in my heart that the flute is upset
The Audition
Disinterested and free
associating in the middle of an audition
my “tragedy face” carried away by it’s ribbon
by a bird, be cool, I thought
be thorough in the face
more thorough than the feeling
let the furrow talk
then I was winning hearts
to be a star is secondary
to dialoguing without error
the thrill of perfect conversation
perfected alone in front of a mirror
but, the audition was underway
I turn away
run into the mirror
a stone into a pond
rippling forth like a laugh track, laughing
like the lead– believability freezes
interpretation
soft upon the audience
Mick Toma is a poet living in Hudson, NY. Their most recent chapbook Incredible Source (2024) was published by Copenhagen Lit. Their work has been featured in Academy of American Poets, Bennington Review, and Hobart Journal.