I have spoken often of his eyes. Gravel-blind,
he forced blood in his eyes, muttering
prophecy: ostrich, toothpaste, Turkish,
toast and teakettles. Flapdoodle! We're all mad here.
My body is a cabinet full of caterpillars. Leaves
are sprouting in my hair, buds blooming
through my eyes and throat. Haloed, I am hidden.
Each step feels like its own miracle, but white
eludes us like time, a melted pocket watch. He was
vulnerose, tuberose, many bone flowers shining
in the moonlight, metacarpals shimmer. Death
he saw as always being beautiful, love like
a burning tire under the cracked, grey sky.
As a child he was given a wounded bat, spirited
it away to his hiding places. Next morning, it lay
half dead, covered with frenzied ants. Overcome,
he bit into the writhing mass, decapitation
the highest honor. I always enjoy
when the dead talk.
Jeannine Geise is the rare, contented high school English teacher. She graduated with her MFA in Creative Writing this past summer from Ashland University, and currently resides near Dayton, Ohio with her handsome husband, Colin; her impressive collection of X-Men comic books; and her two cats, Socrates and Kittah. (Notice the impressive use of semicolons!) To read more about Jeannine and her work, visit her at: http://www.jeanninegeise.wordpress.com/