Letter to My Neck

I would have named you

Atlas, but you were far too

Tender—as in feminine—you

Can’t possibly be the

Mount for my telescope, or

More importantly my calculator.

“What calculator needs a mount?”

Mine does; it doesn’t fit in my palm.

Yet you managed to prop it up, for

All to see its invisibility—

Curse you.

For maintaining its estrangement:

No sense of vulnerability

Forever and always, I blame you.

Since in the meantime its on-and-off ex

Is trapped in a collagen cage

A little south from you.