First, life cuts you
with its ugly light, and now this.
Boy, there’ll be no end to it.
Just as Dr. Hamrell strapped you down
before unleashing his blade, every day
will lull, then pin you with its birds
chirping outside your window.
Watch them long enough,
you’ll come to admire the symmetry
of feathers and their eyes, black
as your empty sleep.
It’s not that you won’t dream,
won’t bury your face in a drool-damp pillow
as Captain Future battles the malformed minions
of Phantom Past, but a bird’s eyes never move.
Look into one closely
and see your face
like a cloud pattern
covering that black planet—
the pits of your eyes, your nose
like a bad idea of how to plow forward,
and your mouth—opened
with nothing to say.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
