Casey Smith

sonnet for my prefrontal cortex

okay, so: I imagine you baby blanket pink & glittering with electricity,
& every time I argue without crying, sparks rocket around the inside of my skull
I am obsessed with you honestly I am ready to have a better personality
like, once a week I stand in front of the mirror & practice I practice 
being a woman I practice holding long cigarettes & being vague 
& one day you’re going to be here—right—fully formed, & I am going to rent a car
just for the fuck of it I’ll get a shock green Camaro or something bitchy like that
& I’ll drive you around the whole country, showing you off 
yes, I’ll get a flap sawed into my forehead just for you & I’ll 
creak it open for people in drugstores—for people in gas stations: look, 
hey look, I’m a real person now & maybe I’ll even feel compelled to stop
box-dying my hair maybe I’ll stop fighting with nihilists at parties
it’s exciting, right, to think about how much love I’m going to deserve soon
I’m so patient I’m so patient which proves you’re almost here

The manatees at Lowry Park kiss their buddies

all day long, almost,
breathing in each other’s
seaweed breath,
they bloom in the sour water,
each petal, a gray back,
propeller-pocked and blubbery,
and now they have turned
the manmade lagoon
into a garden with nothing
but nose touches,
and it would be too human—
and by that, I mean,
it would do them a disservice—
to say the air bubbles
puckering on the surface are
I-love-yous.
Manatees have been wandering around
for 45 million years,
so at this point, they have
transcended language entirely:
when humans were still
rubbing sticks together,
they’d say things like,
Seamus, take this turtle grass as a sign
of my unwavering devotion, buddy,
but now they communicate only
through meaningful looks
that words can’t cradle:
they touch noses,
and swallow love whole.