By Jason W. Johnson
He hasn’t been six
in almost thirty years.
The first dizzy spell,
the vomit sogging the ground,
the apparition of purple dust
in the trees.
The first snow,
a sheen like stained glass
on the fence posts
and feeding
troughs and the violet
shutters spread like
arms akimbo.
The first wasp sting
just below the eyelid, above
the rim of bone.  After that,
he dreamed of empty sockets
where wasps would
set up housekeeping,
sweep out the corners
for their young who will,
when they grow up,
feed on the eyes of children.
The unhatched eggs
still call to him,
to stake their claim
on his nostrils
and his tongue and
the hollow
under his chest.


One Response to “Annus Mirabilis”

  1. […] a sharp guy, a wild poet, and a personal friend of mine. Please read his new original poem “Annus Mirabilis” at […]

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