Strange tongues flap in me; the black
box of my brain echoes them all day.
Pictures flicker inside my glass eye.
Watchers strive to loosen their gaze,
but my lights draw looks, pretty flytraps.
Mouths open and slacken and never close.
My back braces the wall. Three men
would suffer to move me. Lightning feeds
into my guts; I spark and speak.
Angie Harrison works as a scholarship administrator in Baltimore when she's not writing. She graduated from Washington College, where her poetry was awarded the Sophie Kerr Prize.