2 Halves of 1 Ear
I find a piece of glass
in my knee when I lie down
for bed in the starchy green
sheets that mama laid for me.
Her melancholy tale of preteen
girls swallowing live scorpions while
they gallivanted in the woods still
so haunting as I reach inside
and aim to retch the fragment free.
When the shard breaks loose from
inky blots of her black paint
pour from me in place of the blood I've
never really had.
My husband appearing beside me even
though it will still be three years before
I am married.
Meanwhile the plane flies its never-ending passage
overhead as I am forced to question if
the existence of anyone else truly
exists, or if I am just one, strange, lonely,
robot floating along in this whimsical
abyss. Before the aliens interrupt, telling me to just shut the fuck up, and believe.
Papa's voice rings in my ears, mixing
with the scratching and panting sounds
from the doglike creature outside my door, as I try to delight in sexual intercourse with the replica of man.
Instead, I remember the sisters who got lost
in that Carolina swamp, sucking
on the meaty pulps of insects for
Bones pushing out of my feet as I walk upon the monsoon tide, wearing the bluest shoes mama once made for me.
I digress before I fade, and then I fall, tripping into sleep before it realizes it's even latched on.
Every night it comes the same, in a milky humming twilight, in a world with moons as big as pies.
Good die. Days unsheathed. Wallaby.
For what is a dream with a really neat end—
tang maroon upside clown tree fort round.