It’s nighttime, and I sit wondering
if I might be serial killered out here
in my own backyard.
It’s unlikely, I know. So
I remind myself, and then
try to fashion out of this shield
a bunker, or a boat, or just a bigger shield.
I think I’m really sad
and the strange night bird is whortling
like a cartoon version of itself
in this world that feels too real to be real.
And yet, tomorrow is trash day. Rent is due.
I have to remember to defrost the chicken.
Because I am still
alarmingly alive, while more of this world
will disappear tomorrow.
My cat is at the window looking out,
his paw holding down the blinds,
which he knows is not allowed, and his face
is so excruciatingly sweet, I laugh
because no one is seeing this
but me, and maybe the feral cat on the shed roof,
and maybe the cartoon night bird.
If I screamed right now, maybe they would join.
And more and more
would open their throats and scream
and it would travel around the world.
And maybe it’s already begun in some other throat,
and it’s on its way to me now. I’m ready
for that ecstatic choir of screams to lend my voice to.
For seeing my parents alive until they’re old.
For a love that feels safe.
Feral animals welcoming me to their home.
And justice. Or vengeance. Or
maybe a god holding justice and vengeance
behind their back, and saying “Pick a hand,”
and I say, “Right! No, left!”
And we laugh and laugh.