All day hidden in the table
I’ve trembled through their songs
The hum of smiling knives
The marimba of forks
That insist on waking me up
The drugged spoons that ring in their sleep
Cowered beneath a ladle hoping they won’t find me
When they open the drawer
And slam the metal city on my head
After all, I have a right to be nowhere
They have no sympathy for the lost
A splatter of bad luck on their wavering vision
Don’t they realize I risk death
Climbing their slippery darkness?
Each day, it’s harder to find food.
I’m forced to lick the buttermilk
Off their ears at night
I’m just waiting for the doors to swim to me
I’ll know them by the splashing in the clock
And will float on the numbers to my transformation
___________
Iris Brossard