In the next chapter
I feel the blood stop cold in my body
and reverse its course.
Is this a disease, slipped into me
like a counterfeit bill into a cash register,
or is it my feeble attempt to feel something
again, that wheedling sensation
that something vital has shifted,
question marks spun round as in Spanish text?
My baby girl is growing up, her monsters
becoming real. My wife unpacks box
after box like a mad magician. And I am trying
to make sense of my life through words,
painstakingly unwrapping each one
and hammering it to paper.
I wouldn’t wish this on a dog.
The girl inside me dreams of poetry. Sometimes
she throws a tantrum and I have to
chuck a beer at her. In the next chapter,
branches overgrow my house
and a horde of spiders wrap it,
lift it off the ground. This is a bad idea
for all of us, even the spiders.
When camping, my daughters wake me at dawn to kill one.
They don’t realize the futility in this.
Nature is slowly killing us, I want to explain,
and all monsters are real.
My wife redecorates in her mind. I walk
around the block and imagine it’s a different block
each time. I dig for truffles
in my sleep.