The Socket

Jordan Stempleman

 

out of childhood, grew a socket, still in its box

and wrappings, although opened often enough,

almost touched when people were caught looking

at the ribbon, not so much as yellow as when the

hollow first grew from hearing there were other

things made of glass, already grown, fixed into

place in less time than it took the socket to begin

to think of form, once it knew it was forming, this

was a time of practice and prods, of great

discovery, covering and design, it developed for

itself a sealed place, a mud hut covered in tissue, a

wrapper for those who noticed it, so they could

then take out a pen, write their good wishes on the

clear space, a get well, a see you soon, or a

thinking of you to whatever was inside, crowds of

children at first, and then their parents, sitters, or

doctors, drawn by the yellow, so attentive to the

way the sunlight hit it, all waited around to truly

disbelieve

 

 

 

 

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