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—
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.