Because you do not know me, Francezca,
you have every reason to be afraid—
afraid because, while you are sleeping,
I can be the moon, peeping in from out your window
like some lonely lunar voyeur,
or some rusty blade or kitchen knife when
you feel like ending your life with a quick slash
or laceration;
because, when you wake up,
I can be the toothbrush dangling silently in your bathroom,
or the forlorn cotton bud preparing to rid your ears of dust
and excessive earwax.
This is no time to relax, Francezca—
I can be anywhere anytime,
anyone and anything you cannot even begin to imagine:
the whipped cream on your waffle, the mothballs in your closet,
the card tag of your tea bag, the jaundiced shade of moonlight,
the moon-cake you hate, the steady staccato of rain,
the flush’s fecal fouette, the hair inside your nose,
your lip, your mole, black hair and brown irises,
white teeth and red gums, your scalp, your skin,
even your toenails.
What is scary, Francezca, is the fact
that you don’t even know when the attack will be, or in what form,
regardless of how serious or mundane—
an armada of bees, strong winds, neon-colored paperclips,
glow-in-the-dark nail polish, even a dark, monstrous thundercloud
hanging dreadfully in the shadowy shroud of night
waiting for the right time to drip.
Perhaps
I can be the wet sock on your wet foot
in your wet shoe.
Perhaps
I can be the urine-colored contents of a bottle
of Mountain Dew.
Perhaps
I can be the clip that holds
your hair, or
a soft grain of rice on your lip
like a white lonely lotus
on a placid pond of blood, red paint, and cherry dust.
Please, do not wipe your mouth with your hand or kerchief—
just lick your lip then
SWALLOW.
-- Angelo V. Suarez
you have every reason to be afraid—
afraid because, while you are sleeping,
I can be the moon, peeping in from out your window
like some lonely lunar voyeur,
or some rusty blade or kitchen knife when
you feel like ending your life with a quick slash
or laceration;
because, when you wake up,
I can be the toothbrush dangling silently in your bathroom,
or the forlorn cotton bud preparing to rid your ears of dust
and excessive earwax.
This is no time to relax, Francezca—
I can be anywhere anytime,
anyone and anything you cannot even begin to imagine:
the whipped cream on your waffle, the mothballs in your closet,
the card tag of your tea bag, the jaundiced shade of moonlight,
the moon-cake you hate, the steady staccato of rain,
the flush’s fecal fouette, the hair inside your nose,
your lip, your mole, black hair and brown irises,
white teeth and red gums, your scalp, your skin,
even your toenails.
What is scary, Francezca, is the fact
that you don’t even know when the attack will be, or in what form,
regardless of how serious or mundane—
an armada of bees, strong winds, neon-colored paperclips,
glow-in-the-dark nail polish, even a dark, monstrous thundercloud
hanging dreadfully in the shadowy shroud of night
waiting for the right time to drip.
Perhaps
I can be the wet sock on your wet foot
in your wet shoe.
Perhaps
I can be the urine-colored contents of a bottle
of Mountain Dew.
Perhaps
I can be the clip that holds
your hair, or
a soft grain of rice on your lip
like a white lonely lotus
on a placid pond of blood, red paint, and cherry dust.
Please, do not wipe your mouth with your hand or kerchief—
just lick your lip then
SWALLOW.
-- Angelo V. Suarez
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