By Mitchel Montagna
I pace the halls like a zombie leaking
blood and fire:
It must have been the fog, injecting a
disease I cannot bear.
But when I tried to set it down,
it burrowed into my throat.
I will never sing
at birthday parties again.
Turned out that sip of molten lava was
really an invitation to the cosmos.
All ‘round the rooms, explosive
tangles of lightning and wire.
Their sizzling and thunder orchestrate
like a sadist’s tune.
The waiting, at least, is familiar:
Remember those vacant afternoons
stoned on lethargy, confusion
dissipating to disgust.
Creeping shadows reflecting
the loneliness in your eyes.
When you touched your face
you found it numb as earth,
like you were buried already.
Mitchel Montagna has worked as a special education teacher, radio journalist, and corporate communicator. He is married and lives on Florida’s Gulf coast.