Tonight’s plan by Jacob Fowler
midnight has a fun time
stripping memories and

turning them into buzzsaws;
sometimes these twist-turn
recollections prick my finger
and I bleed hot wax,
but I always see the wind
taunting me like a hearse
tonight, the sky is the color of that parking lot
with the potholes that we used to fill
up with our babbling
tonight is a wave crashing inside a wave
and the tired-eyed windowpane
whipped
tonight is a tarantula with a human jaw,
too big for its mouth
so it’s skin is so stretched that it’s
hardly alive
tonight is gnawing
tonight the buzzsaws are after me more than ever
which means that my home will be empty
within the hour
maybe I’ll come and find you
and turn dirty rags into
apologies.
we can wrap them
around our forearms
and sink into the front
seats of a beat up
nissan and tell
each other how
it would feel
to be home
I’ll show you the molds I made
out of past traumas
and you can feign interest
until I hate the sound of my voice
I’m sorry
I speak a lot
I can’t stand the dark
____________________________________________________________

Jacob Fowler is an elementary school teacher living in Oakland, CA. He recently graduated from Pitzer College with a BA in World Literature. His poetry has appeared in Barren Magazine, Levee Magazine, Ghost City Review, and Riggwelter Press, among others. You can find him on Twitter @jacobafowler.


One Comment
Stu
Striking narrative. Unsettling imagery. I feel a little disturbed, thank you.