Postcard from Inside His Head
The sky is full of blood-tipped beaks.
All hover dark-winged, ready
to peck these words to mumbles.
All roads are made of mud.
Each step comes at the expense of a lost shoe,
sucked down into the ground's dirty mouth.
If I try hard enough, I can see you
standing patiently beside your mailbox
but where I live, every day is a Sunday.
I've decided to let you stay
under our bed, the floor --
not the space between
mattress and metal frame.
Take your hand out
from under my pillow, please.
And take your sheets too.
Drag them under. Make pretend ghosts.
I can't have you rattling the bed springs
so keep still, keep quiet.
Mistake yourself for shadows.
Learn the lullabies of lint.
I will do right by you:
crumbs brushed off my sheets,
white chocolate chip, I think,
or the corners of crackers.
Count on the occasional dropped grape,
a peach pit with fine yellow hairs,
wet where my tongue has been,
a taste you might remember.
I've heard some men can survive
on dust mites alone for weeks at a time.
There's a magnifying glass on the nightstand,
in case it comes to that.
About the author:
Saeed Jones is currently pursuing his MFA in Creative Writing at Rutgers University - Newark. His work has appeared in StorySouth, Barnwood Magazine, The Adirondack Review, and Splinter Generation among other publications. Feel free to check out his blog - saeedjones.wordpress.com
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