it’s just the faintest trace of it, strewn
across the carpet, muting
reckless angles, swooping, crack
and lift me from my bed, pull
me swiftly to the door.
post-alarm, the shrill still
thumps my head, screeching
voices tell me, GO!
there are no monsters, only ghosts
and this is it – the call
of something less eternal, more exact;
a sliver, a glimpse – the skin of something fleeting,
something urgent, something precious
losing ground against
the tick-tick-ticking clock.
it’s been dreams the shape of living every night
for countless days as the thread of this redemption
pulls me close;
as, invisibly, i hold on for dear life.
the voices in the floorboards speak
the message in my brain, they say:
i won’t play dead while living; i will not take
one step back.
an eye of the kitchen opens.
the mouth of the kitchen yawns.
stepping in, i pluck an apple. rinse it. eat it.