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Yesterday I watched a tiny man climb up my rose bush.

Today I saw a woman dangling from a cloud above my house.

Just now, a cobra slithered under my computer's keyboard,

a miniature transcendental Pope sits cross-legged on my mouse

chanting "om" as flames gnaw at the lino in the kitchen;

my toes crawled off to eat some grass,

my hair ran away with my teeth,

said they had better things to do

like go to the sea. Who knows why?

A fly crawled up my nose and I spat him out,

he said he knew the truth

but couldn't tell me because it was a lie.

My eight-year-old was an alien from Nibiru

searching for Atlantis in the kitchen sink and my

teenager played house with a girl down the road.

My husband's horns have started to curl

and his cheeks have sprouted tusks.

This world is too much to endure.

I slithered on my belly to the front yard

where the ants and millipedes promised

safe transport to a realm of beauty and grace

where all my parts stay where they should.

I fear the insects lied—

this place looks maddeningly familiar

and the woman

dangling from the cloud

looks a lot like me . . .

Sharon lives in Erwin, Tennessee with her husband and daughter. Her poetry has appeared in over a dozen anthologies and magazines, both online and in print, and more of her poetry is slated to appear in other publications throughout 2009 and 2010. You can find out more about Sharon at her website, Inkspot.
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8 Jul 2024

The statue of that gorgeous and beloved tyrant, my father, stands in a valley where the weather has only ever been snow.
Panic will come / for every fuckwitted one of us
Neural-lace, my brain interfaced
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