Chloe Cook
Anole
Anole, wiry thing, splayed on the concrete
like a smear of pesto, jeweled cravat
of a dewlap ballooning from your neck.
You make no vocalizations, feign calm
as I lift you by the trunk. I know the feat:
this display of composure when attacked
is evolutionary glamour. Soon, your speckled
scales will dull to brown (a stress response),
fear betrayed by chroma. One might perceive
your crypsis as “introverted” or “unpalatable,”
but such caution is your defining tactic.
Always, I find you in lanais, on Sabal palms—
not the cabbagey heart but the bright keloid
that, in others’ eyes, seems best to avoid.
Chloes
Very few mechanics in the bunch.
Most are skeptical of “dream journals.”
Some are famous actresses. I’d guess half
believe in the “power of prayer.”
Perhaps one is a violin luthier,
another working an oil rig in the Pacific.
A Chloe in Pigeon Forge sold me
lemonade at the Titanic Museum
(every Chloe suffers for young DiCaprio).
All despair over “artisanal beer”
and the “French tuck.” The Chloes
are unlikely to take over the world
(they aren’t that worried about it)
but, collectively, could solve
the national issue of highway traffic. I see
in each Chloe a flicker
of terror when traversing water parks,
a mild allergy to squash,
and a certain impartiality to violence.
Chloes are decent parallel parkers.
Average kayakers. Poor singers.
They aren’t much for curtain bangs.
They have irregular sleep schedules.
Statistics suggest I’m neither the best
nor worst of the lot. It’s alleged
the Chloes have developed
between them a strange version
of echolocation, in which one Chloe
is always accessible to another
through a blood-portal
only summonable when drinking
bourbon. It’s true, but I always
refuse the call on principle—every
animal should learn to hunt alone.
Chloe Cook lives and teaches in Southwest Florida. Her poems are forthcoming in West Branch, The Rumpus, Nimrod, and elsewhere.