Allison Hummel

Views

 

From my bedroom window, I have a view

of kumquat trees.

 

From the kitchen, there are the grape-

vines entangled with a brutal

metal fence.

 

In my dream, I dreamt of the man

who chose me on the train,

stalked me close  

with eyes like cue balls.

 

I dreamt he moved in next door.

 

There are grapes now on the vine,

they have the tactile, frosted aspect

nice to touch.

 

I don’t even want to walk in the dark

anymore.

 

I toast pieces of bread in the morning

and at night.

 

I knew him by his socks, his no shoes,

cue ball eyes;

 

And I sometimes choose

to believe

 

that dreams are garbage--

 

dredged from the same pit as

the tantalum mines, that place our clothes go to

when we don’t wear them anymore.

 

That place, the spiritual equivalent

of a movie theater floor.

 

Thick with grease gone scummy,

separated from all previous context.

 

If  I ever see him again,

in my dream,

I will move in all directions

at once. I’ll go

3d hexagonal.

 

Because I am

so tired of feeling afraid.

I almost think I am ready

to shoot the plane down.

 

I almost think I am ready

to grab the paradigm by its hair

drag it across the yard

kick it into limpness

 

see if it learns anything

Allison Hummel is based in Los Angeles. Her work has recently appeared in the Cabildo Quarterly, A Glimpse Of, and Voicemail Poems.

 

 

 

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