I left my window open. Moonlight knocked over
the dresser, flung socks and secrets like a thief
scared away mid-theft. A fly rummaged my body. I survived
bombs meant for I know not who, mistook my beating heart
for unexploded ordnance. Whose war am I fighting?
My throat burns with lightning. A rainstorm sloshes
in my stomach. I smell strongly of ozone, wet grass, bird
feathers. Someone made off with my tears, sold them
to a cloud for pennies on the dollar. At breakfast,
I find the cupboards bare, the fridge ransacked.
I make coffee with a bean I scrounge off the floor,
next to a blueberry and breadcrumb I eat greedily.
I have lived so long, unawares of this black market,
slept with my mouth shut to keep out the spiders
I learn don’t actually climb into mouths at night.
I guzzle water from the faucet; remove a thousand
stingers from my face, neck, chest, thighs;
watch a spider eat a bee and a lion eat a bear.
Tonight I’ll dream that a colony of ants has dragged
me out to sea, where I discover my belongings and I
have become so much flotsam and jetsam. Bobbing
in the water, I barter what’s left of me for a pinch of
salt to season my last meal and bribe a pigeon to tell
my wife to close the window—that I’m happy here.