Poetry, Vol. 2.3, Sept. 2008
I am a wolfman in the doorway
in cellophane. It’s a secret
how I get my colors so vibrant.
This was before the fish people came
and made us learn to swim the hard way.
They were looking for a sacrifice
but I’d made all the ones I cared to.
Something below the floor is moving.
Something I don’t know the name of
waits below for me to forget
which tap is for plant water, which
is for bath. Sara says it’s too
expensive to make mistakes, with the price of rubber
since the war started. She demanded
an embargo at the teacher meeting—
all eyes slipped towards me, I touched
her hand as though unclasping a bra,
stood and spoke,
“Dagon, that was the name.”