False Awakening

Caught in the iron grip of deep slumber,

I dream that I wake,

feel that white rabbit panic flood my veins

so I rush to a bathroom that is mine

(that I’ve never seen before)

drag a dog brush through my thick, black hair

each stroke pulling fat clumps of mottled string out of my head,

exposing naked patches of scalp —

bloody and dry.

I crawl through the mirror into a long, dark corridor

lined with steel shelves that stretch higher

than my eyes can see —

boxes of bandaids and bottles of tinctures

tumble and break

under the weight of my hands and knees,

slashing and scratching my skin

(this should hurt)

There’s a hole in the wall no bigger than a doorknob,

I compress my body and squeeze through

the way a cat crawls under a fence,

emerge into bright, white sunlight

still on all fours

look up and feel my eyes constrict then dilate —

light replaced with the muddy eyes

of a mouthless ringmaster

balancing on stilts,

a stovepipe hat slightly askew,

pinstriped pants and a velvet suit.

He bends down, blots out the sun,

stretches his thin, rubbery arm towards me

(arms are never really that long)

and lifts me to my feet —

wordless, expressionless,

a face meant for the background of things,

his hand retreats, a tarot card left behind —

the hanged man, blink

the lovers, blink

the queen of hearts —

twists at the waist and sweeps his arm

towards a big top tent.

Red and white striped canvas split apart like curtains

and I enter,

find myself trapped in a spotlight

surrounded by bleachers packed with strange faces,

wide-eyed, frowning, bearing teeth,

the corners of their mouths upturned and grinning

I’m tethered to a wall

bound around my wrists and ankles,

pinned like a butterfly on a bug board.

A bearded lady crawls out of a clown barrel,

one leg lame and dragging,

places an apple on my head,

nods at a man in a black cape and white mask

standing on the outskirts of the circular stage.

He lifts his bow, nocks the arrow, and lets it loose —

it’ll never hit the apple, it flies far too low

So I close my eyes, brace for impact.

I wake, lying in bed, anchored and stuck —

shapes fade-in as my eyes adjust to the darkness

something sits on the edge of my bed,

I feel the flush of fear,

hot and thick —

the shadow moves, twists around,

a face comes into focus:

the ringmaster —

he stares at me, cups his hand, and, like a gunshot,

he is on me, covering my mouth.

My eyes fling open.

Sweating. Terrified. Awake.