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MAKE ME JUMP INTO THE AIR by Cat Richardson

After David Bowie's "Moonage Daydream"

Listen you’re a moonage marvel,
a Bowie from the Bayou with a snake
in your pant cuff. You carry an electric
swamp around you like a cloak
of wet stars.

After David Bowie’s “Moonage Daydream”

Listen you’re a moonage marvel,
a Bowie from the Bayou with a snake
in your pant cuff. You carry an electric
swamp around you like a cloak
of wet stars.

Skinny legs, I’ve seen you leap
over cars without a running start.
I’ve seen you become a diving bird.
You dipped into the water and came
up with a flayed goat’s head in your
claws. Picked the flesh off, you did.

Start a fire. I’ll send smoke up
to the smallest gods.
That might not sit right with you,
friend, you’re a complicated
little splinter, but get low with me:

I’m an alligator I’d make fine
leather goods. You’re a space invader
so set me loose in the pulsar’s pool.
Keep your toes sunk in the bog
bottom. It’s the only way
to lose this freak parade—we’ve
got a long way to go before the ground
reaches the sky, and you’re all
I’ve got in this radiant swamp.

 
Listen to Cat Richardson’s discussion of “Make Me Jump Into the Air” below…


 

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About Cat Richardson

Cat Richardson
Cat Richardson’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Tin House, elimae, Lungfull! Magazine, and The Golden Key. Her prose has appeared in Pleiades and Poets & Writers. She is senior editor at The American Reader and managing editor of Bodega.