This isn’t the kind of story you want to read before breakfast. Go, get the kids. Put spoons between their toes and buttons in the sockets of their eyes. Remind them that most cereals can be eaten by sound. Cock your head to show them how it’s done. Each ear falls on its own into the edges of the bowl.

Loss of appetite is an early sign. Watch them for listlessness, fever, the cough of milk that pours into the caverns of the throat. Keep an eye, an ear, a finger on the curves of their faces, on the bumps above their brains. They will circle the water hole, thirsty beasts of whiskered wonder. Fleas the size of

safety make the leap across the boundaries of paradox. This is all or nothing,
backed to the razor’s straight. Blame the science, blame the beasts.
But we all carry as much as we can, even when that much blooms in viral.
Your daughter’s falling off the table. Call the doctor; it’s the thing

we know to do. When blindness falls, you don’t notice the loss of light.
The dark carries beauty in its concave. The red inside the ears is the sunset
of your sight, slipping. Take your children by the hands, lead them away
from the moment of their death. They don’t have to watch.
The loss lies behind the eyes, in the twitch and salivation of the
ending of the nerves.



Image taken with iphone
Words written at the coffee shop
Time Taken 12 minutes?
Brain on Myxomatosis
on Alela Diane

This entry was published on January 22, 2012 at 4:42 pm and is filed under Colin James, January, Poems, Portland. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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