These are my devices by Isabel Sullivan

Beauty is empty, extra is outside. I will grow another skin

or two. To make a salad is to turn on the television.

The rain sparkling in the sun is nothing but a papier-mache pretzel

is nothing but the facts. I open books to find that words exist.

A walk is something, words are something,

pineapple upside down cake is something else,

trying is something else. Sudden gasp of worthiness.

I should be a mulberry tree. All summer the airplane is an

eclipse. I hold my own hand, exchange discipline for satisfaction,

something for nothing. Red-handled paring knife

lodged in the crotch of the maple tree

is an empty cup is a conversation is a formula. Coiled pots

are old but mud is older, water is older.

Heat is harsher is a grandmother who stares me down.

Points to the water. I will not go. I put on a sweater.

In the shade a woman rubs another woman’s feet.

Each street is sister to another. I am a tree

in time. Squirrels are family. I have yet to mention my

hands. They are paper bag puppets

on stage, dancing as best they can. I live all realities as the scrub jay

under observation. I practice deception.

I empty my head to make room for continued existence.

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Isabel Sullivan's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Otis Nebula, Pom Pom Lit, and Be About It Zine. She writes and teaches preschool in California.