Treasure Island

peter bormuth


Myopia


What does it matter, after all,

if another man is lying between

her thighs like a white swan

on the dark water?

Who really cares if a snowstorm

of shadows robs me of my fingerprints?

So what if I lay in a tomb all day

and then pop up in the evening

like an old barstool?

After all it's only my DNA

longing for new architecture,

wanting to change the arrangement

of the sitting room furniture.

Maybe I'll go up the fireplace in smoke

like a sullen saber tooth tiger.

Does it matter if the smell

of her underwear assaults me with

pickaxes? I can't call the police

and have her arrested. The wind

won't open it's windows. They've

been painted shut and the man

wearing the suit of green feathers

won't answer the doorbell.

The brooms all hate me and

the dishes rattle on the table

until the silverware is brought

from it's hiding place.

It's not a gentle thing to be human

and in love.

The undertaker and the baker

share space in the kitchen.

Why didn't someone warn me about this?

Invent a vaccine? It's such a small

twirl in the big swirl, I mean,

it really doesn't matter.

Have you ever seen the sandhill

cranes flap and hop and spin as they

dance along a riverbank?

Or the fireflies when they nuzzle

the damp dew on the tops of leaves

or the long blades of bent wet grass

in the ravenous morning?

Shit. Even my thoughts turn

into mosquitoes and sting me.

They strip the paint from the ceiling

and walls like a blind gorilla

with a rusty coat hanger.

They can't keep me here alone

in this prison forever.

Stars explode too.

If my cells want to rupture

their membranes, let them.

Just keep the fibroblasts*

away from me.

I'd rather die now

than do what most people call live.

*the cells in the body that form scar tissue after an injury or wound is sustained

Submitted: Saturday, February 20, 2010

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