crooked as corkscrews

She’s been lobbed,
and like the other grenades
can’t help but like
the deeply American ache
where the pin used to be.
She is a squat,
angry seed that blooms
into absence, into big flowers
of what was, a trick fruit
that creates its own mouth,
a wild eye that blinks
it’s own face away. Luckily,
she feels only the slightest tingle
of the empiricism, of the impact she’ll have
wherever she land.
She’s had to insinuate herself
into everything else: the concept
of time, the elaborate and ruthless
culture of love, the life cycle
of trees. But the space that must be
cleared for her, the threat
she poses to other living things,
this is her radius.