© 2005 by Paul-William Gagnon

Our Own Sweet Apples

imagine that the body
of a thing is inhabited
by the spirit of
another thing

and this is true
for all things―

for snow plows and socks
bridges and elephants
kazoos and staplers.

for instance
the body of a snowplow
is inhabited
by the spirit
of a parrot

the body of a birthday cake
inhabited by
a typewriter

the socks, spirit of a discarded
bowling trophy

and one day the snowplow
decides it is a parrot
and will not push snow
until the highway
department man
paints its beak
bright orange, yellow
and black

and one day you see
your socks
snake away from
your miserable feet
and leap for the top
of the bookcase

for even the watermelon has
its own green ghost, its true love.

people, too
are misinhabited

are lonely
their spirits
not their own

eventually they get the wish
to be something else
a doormat, a spider
a hurricane, a child’s doll
a slashed tire, a river
in Arctic

            but imagine:
for some of us
spirits come and go
as if we were carpentered
of shutters or the sea
everything
staggers through us

like a drunken uncle
slamming eyelids & doors
our whole life shakes
for no reason
or smokes like a burning sofa
or erupts
with gills and fins
 
we mutilate
the clocks of our heads
we shoot holes
in aquariums
we baa or grunt or
nail ourselves to
matchsticks

we bathe
in kerosene

but maybe a few
so very few
so precious few
startled
by our bodies, our own
sweet apples
find the heart isn’t
a container but a channel
through which all
earth pebbles through

and our loneliness

what of
our loneliness?