Dee Rimbaud © 2005 All Rights Reserved
I had a feeling the chemicals in the air
were affecting me.
It took me a long time to find my shoes.
I couldn’t work my fingers
and left them untied.
I smelled something cooking.
Around me, like schools of fish swarming,
bees with stingers, stinging.
Mean-spirited birds sharpening talons.
I jumped at the thought of my body.
I was scared of my imagination.
Here I was,
a grown man with a wife and child,
a home and dog,
a sense of dread like a lost eyelash,
causing me to blink and
check the closets with a clenched fist.
Fireworks in the distance sounded
like sealed jars shattering.
I tried to buck up.
I reassured myself. “You’re fine,” I said.
I knew something was different.
No longer was I able to navigate
the strange cave that led
to my bedroom. Instead,
like a bottle rocket spiraling
through the attic, I bounced
around in seizure.
Gods peered down from
the edge of a distant heaven.
One even blew
in a tear-soaked handkerchief.
Peter Davis lives and teaches in Muncie, Indiana. He has a sweet wife, a beautiful son, and a loyal dog. Barnwood Press recently published an online chapbook of his poems, In the States, and he is the editor of Poet’s Bookshelf: Contemporary Poets on Books that Shaped Their Art, also from Barnwood.
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