Plastic Sonnet 38
BY CAROLINE CREW
How slowly the world turns on my lips—
for now, state your scarlet ideal.
Pride told me it was my sister:
the purple conditions of her mouth
imperil to the biggest red,
my autobiography in the key
of cherry bomb.
In fact you are one moment
of love me, my country & a hundred
fathoms of neutral wonder—
the body must start somewhere.
No history agrees on how fingers
should be the most beautiful,
still I fingerspell you constantly:
crescent moon, bull horn, gun.
