When I woke up, I was in a cell.
My captor stood over me
in the claustrophobic cage
The bars close enough to scratch
both of our backs.
His eyes were
in stark contrast to the rest of him
Sunken sockets
Coarse stubble
Oily hair
His chest heaved to see me awake
He pointed my own rifle
right between my eyes
I saw one barrel
And two enemies
I felt my SMART Armour tighten
I think he saw it also
His dark irises and pupils
Inverted moons sinking low
to see my defenses tightening
Sweat on his brow
formed rain clouds
as his trigger finger itched
and he sized me up
He smiled.
He brought my rifle up onto his shoulder
and leaned the barrel against his temple
"Your body is bullet proof
But not your spirit,"
And everything above his lower jaw
Disintegrated.
I woke up
...again.
To birdsong.
A longhair cat
white as a lily
sniffing at my ankles
An ocean of lavender and pink
surrounding my island of cobblestone
It's a garden. Vast and bright.
A girl with bronze skin steps close and I flinch.
"You ready to go?" She asks.
"Go where?" I ask in reflex.
"Away from where you were," she says,
as her chestnut eyes shift to a weapon
a grownup weapon meters away.
I know all it's parts. Stock, barrel, magazine, spring,
but the names all feel like poison,
they hurt.
The cat approaches the angular husk of the rifle and lowers its brow.
"Are you ready to go?" she repeats, holding out a dimpled hand.
"Ready," I say.
There's no path in the surrounding flower beds,
But she dashes off.
I follow.
I forget about the rifle.
I hear the cat meow behind me
I hear birdsong.
I hear the girl ahead giggle.
I say "wait for me..."
YOU ARE READING
Grayspace
PoetryThis project is the author's exercise of methods using automatism as either the finished product or the basis for stories and poems. Nonsense, jarring images, and peculiar journeys woven from the stuff of dreams await. You might laugh. You might cr...
