A poem by Nicholas Laughlin
The Strange Years of My
and previously in Almost Island, Winter 2011
Because I have a hard time sitting still.
Rumours about my behaviour.
The malice of my friends.
Because this kind of weather does not end.
Days long as mistakes,
weeks boring as rain,
the acres of my bed,
sheets that itch like paper,
electric fish, lantern boats,
tepid decaf river.
I wrap my fever in paper,
I sweat like milk and glass and red cayenne.
Tattoo, sunburn, vaccination scar,
sweat and freckle in my sleep.
Because I have been wanted and disowned.
Everything is easier far from home.