Is something more frightening coming? The silence in the kitchen says, yes. Heaven is the hole in your chest. The teapot has red eyes. Beware of anesthetic; you throw the bad dogs raw meat. The fortune-tellers have spoken, levitated the table, moved the green eyes in the painting of the dead dowager on the wall. Of course, there is no escape. Not in the mirror, though the mirror is a friendly thing. Always, in its way, tried to warn you. There is no skirt large enough to hide behind. Under the grass, something is singing, wake up.
Abigail Dembo lives in Berkeley, California. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in EPOCH, Laurel Review, RHINO, The Midwest Quarterly, The Main Street Rag, and other places.