Glass Poetry Press

Volume Six Issue Two

Christopher Kuhl

I Must Be Mad

I sit. I touch no one. I build little piles of stones around me, little piles of sticks and mud and bits of bone. I make a little hut. I shriek like baba yaga … I must be mad. if I had a little white suit I would bob up and down, tap my toes. I would put my fingers in my mouth and smile like an idiot. I would dance, legs akimbo, across your table. if you fluttered your hands like a moth I might go into the garden and find one beneath the lamp. maybe I would swallow it, or maybe I would pluck its wings. I must be crazy to love you; there are certain things to think about: an egg broken in the carton, a shoe tossed by the side of the road. wildflowers for your mother. I kissed you on the hill when the milkweed was ripe and your hair like straw. our lips stuck. our lips stuck. I must be mad. I prance around my little hut, singing witchy songs. I feel like a toad. right now if I smashed into a wall at the speed of light this would be just so much ink and paper. just a spot in the road, a piece of slime. I must be crazy to love you.