Taelor Jurmu
NIGHTMARES OF WHAT HAPPENED LAST NOVEMBER
As if I were pierced from behind–not with a sword, but with a pike of ash–and it dislodged some of my spine, which worked its way into my lungs and set splinters in my shoulder blades, wings unfurled. Wings unable to beat the wind thereafter. The warm, wooden throb bumps just there, a glimmer of things that are, things to come, and things that were long ago. The pop and gush heard ‘round the world. A surge known to no other. Cold hardwood, clammy cheek. Make him pay, make him stay. Desertion is the whetstone that sharpens the blade of vengeance. My cold, steel axe to grind. November stalls with a final lurch and cough and belch of fumes. It’s a kind of stripping. First, the pull and tease of the unknown, then a full, incoherent fury. Think taffy, think brimstone. Man’s covert destiny lies in wait. From the tallest tower, we leap. In the nest of gray, we sleep. Maybe the stars went out, or maybe I like bad surprises now.