On Change
by Evan Wambeke
Piercing my nose, she recommends left.
I pierce the left. I make a wound of my face so that it may shimmer.
There is a full moon tomorrow. If I am a werewolf
I will go down to the mall
and win the punching bag game. I will eat children
sized candy bracelets until there is lasso enough
to bring Key West home. I plan to teach my class a story
is the measure of change in a character. I had a dream last night
my ex-girlfriend and I went naked
into her family’s backyard and she turned
into a manta ray. The sky is still. The sky
moves. I plan to teach them that without
conflict the characters cannot change—
there isn't a story. The air sits. Rain falls.
Werewolves are a metaphor
I tell my friend. In another dream
I witness myself realizing my age on a ski lift.
I’m no longer at a high-school race,
the only reason I’m there is to jump
off. When I am twenty four, I work at the airport.
The night is cold. The airplane arrives.
I sing to myself as I throw luggage onto
the carousel. Each bag somebody's pony.
I’m told my great grandfather used to drink
pony beers. I drink my beers tall and quick.
Presidente in Florida. Coors in Wyoming.
The mountains are silver. The mountains turn
blue. I look into the mirror and my hair grows. I know before
I was Jesus Christ the world ended: the millennium changed,
the comet was too close, the calendar ran out
of room on its wheel. Now the wheel spins.
grows rings, becomes a tree. My friend
tells me the trees in the Redwoods are so big you can hear your blood move.
I imagine listening to my marrow stir.
White cells falling like snow onto bones,
red clay tilling beneath the frost.