Air potatoes in indistinct moonlight
Like modern Winchcombe Grotesques
Fortifying the overgrowth of summer vines
Chills in the heat, dancing along my spine
Monstrous night
Dogs plastered to the fence
Growling at an undone rope
A rope unwound
Hanging on a spindly tree
Gulf Coast wind winding up to
A shrieking Banshee force
Is it the 3 a.m. heart attack
Or a dream
Can’t recall rolling out of bed
Sliding through the glass door
Suddenly soaking suede cloth boots
I think, Well, that feels real
Surreal similarity of when I was four
High on my uncle’s shoulders
Defying the Atlantic Ocean
Then slapped by a wave
Drowning
But still breathing
Under the sea
Thinking
Well, this is it
Then feeling him find me
Scoop me up
Carry me back to Atlantic City sounds
Of ice cream men walking the beach
Of children shouting, alive and laughing
All a blank after that, like now
And I fall on sleeping red-ant villages
On the beach of my back yard
Mosquitoes glued to skin welting up
My smallest dog jumps onto my back
As if we’re in bed
And suddenly my head
Clears in the darkness
Despite humidity and drizzle
It’s real, I rise
Clap my hands demanding the dogs to follow
Maybe they, as nocturnals, belong here
But no place for me
At three
In the unearthly morning
Of moon madness
Brought on, I surmise
From OD-ing on chamomile tea
And vomit-smelling valerian drops
All in the name of at least
A good two hours sleep
But back in the cool air conditioned bed
Insomniac thoughts reverberate in my head
How’d I get there without remembering
And, most importantly
Who hung that freaking rope
Who hung on it…
© 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGES: Rope in my swamp, medieval Winchcombe Grotesque
