Dear oscillating fan: The anticipation of your
cooling swivel undoes me. Don’t we all wish
to be motorized inside sometimes? My rotor just
waiting for someone’s electrical smile to push my
magnetic heart into an unstoppable motion? Don’t we
all wish for some devoted hum? If only I could
speak in throaty thrums when it’s all too quiet: a telegram
of wind, a route of winged relief. And when you
slumber, your derelict heartbeat dreams of rotaries, of windmills,
of air currents stirring themselves into circular magical potions.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 3.
See all items about Carol Berg