In Your Radioactive Play,

jumbo shrimp will float
down the oxymoron river.
Islands licked into shape by cats’
paws materialize among the turtle
people holding congress in the reeds,
though they would rather sing
somewhere bright, like Broadway.
Only the grass refuses to believe
in the power of reruns, fading properly
when the season’s over. A fey child sets
a hand loose in the field, watching it
return with Raul Julia’s tango
footwork, one turnip still attached
to a string of people, half a dozen
dolls’ heads and a silken ribbon.
Considering the pig has devoured
the runaway pancake, there’s time
for a nap beneath the crater’s
quivering lip. Oceans away, cara mia,
I can see you working the voice loose
from its bones of anger. Flex your tender
muscles and touch something. Grow
words and lightning bolts from the tips
of your fingers, cilantro and dill
on your windowsill. The sky’s
cobalt is bluer than water. Ophelia
would have seen it if she’d opened
her eyes. I’d make her get up if she didn’t,
fluff her ringlets, dress her in rayon.
Jumping out of the pond and wringing
her soaked brocade she’d finally admit
she’s always preferred dark mascara,
chocolate milk and vampire movies.
She’ll smooth her cheeks, take vitamins,
go back to school; she’ll even shrug when,
occasionally, she cheats on her vegetarian diet.