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 . . .