The song masquerades
as a phone call. The circle

is temporary, a leopard, a center,
a stomping ground. A flock

tightens in circles,
but each sheep is firm, stone

jaw working away its lower
face. A thumbnail, a shoehorn,

a sick fool, a clown; peering under
the sash, we watch it hang

a spotted dress. You return
from the school on high,

your wreath developing a
faint ring; I demand your

face’s hand-off, your shortened
name, so solid at room

temperature that my kid gloves
crumble it, vanish & absorb it.

Alana Solin is a writer from New Jersey. She is currently the Poetry Editor of the online literary magazine Nat. Brut. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Second Factory, Tyger Quarterly, jubilat, and elsewhere.