Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

fascinating creatures

and for a moment: panic
that lump in your throat that preempts screaming,
you don’t know where he is

rustle in the bush, a predator
rustle up above, a predator – no,
that’s him
several stories too high up a deadrot oak
“come down,”
you plead, failing to conceal
your anxious fury

“ask me how i got up here,”
he insists, pleased with himself.
you ask, and he tells you that he’s a
flying fish, and that you’re just a regular fish
and that the ground is water;
or, he posits,
he’s a chicken
and they can actually fly in short bursts
when provoked by predators;
no, better yet,
he’s a flying spotted dragon –
“draco maculatus”

you beg he descend, slowly
but immediately,
wonder at your own stupidity:

last week
out scavenging, you came across the remains
of a library,
and of all the gifts,
of all the possibilities, you brought him back this
“fascinating creatures”


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