The Uncanny Valley
Fireflies careening the fields regardless
of charm, without attention, jesters slid
into the sea and time was forthcoming.
There was a story being told.
The lake asked nothing. (It was late
and certainty required that you talk less
or at the very least move over.) Under
the song he said ‘no more peonies’
buttoned the door back on its frame, the
street a ceremony in and of itself which
made cars implements, plain miracles
capsizing baskets in candied fields.
The men and women were useful, abolishing
daisies, and every time the band plays
I’m Ursula wondering still at the door
a terminal of the face (such is any incident
on the way home) a field of aftermaths,
a horizon because of boats.
Cloth begot embrace while television
considered fish, flowers by Mary and the
fonts belonging to the post office coterie.
While the room is recreated and the woods
are just outside, denouncing, there’s styled
behavior in the country in the city nonetheless,
there are sermons in the sky, tonight, whole
haggled systems, photographs abiding and
I create nothing, I broke his collarbone
and went away, listened to a song and pulled
the world up around my head. Today is a long
time in any number of places we don’t go.
No one says thank you. They get older and
they fake it whether or not we’re there.
Copyright © 2015 by Amanda Nadelberg. Used with permission of the author.
“This poem was written four and half years ago. I can’t remember much about the moments surrounding it, save for that I had just moved temporarily to the state of Massachusetts. Near my parents’ house there is a white, canopied cart that says ‘flowers by Mary’ and it has a little locked box that honest people put money in, to pay for small floral arrangements.”