by Amy Lerman
- What will you do
- when your leg starts sprouting
- layers and layers of green
- fettuccini, so long they will teem
- over the compression sock’s edge,
- remind you of your sister’s Dolly
- Surprise, its power to grow a ponytail
- with a raised right arm? Will you
- align your elbow to waist,
- then superglue palm against hip to halt
- the flowering? Will you sneak shave, flush
- away the green before your wife’s Ambien
- wears off, before she tells you
- to hurry, she needs to shit, before she calls
- you a human Chia? Or, will you ask
- for the scissors, ease the strands
- into the boiling water, and begin
- to sauté the garlic?
Amy Lerman was born and raised on Miami Beach, moved to the Midwest for many years, and now lives with her husband and very spoiled cats in the Arizona desert, where she is residential English faculty at Mesa Community College. She received her Master’s and Ph.D. in American Literature from the University of Kansas, and her poems have appeared in Rattle, Smartish Place, Common Ground Review, Prime Number, Solstice, and other publications.