;
Xenophilia
The tickle in my ear brings thoughts of
childhood-pupal stages. Dear Lord,
I can’t help but swat out against it;
God’s creature, so they say.
I wonder how much soul He
really did pour into that observant beast
clinging to the edge of my water glass,
cocking its tiny head at me?
I try for Xenophilia in my dreams,
In fantasy novels, in dark aureoles;
In my own supposition about the normalcy
of the forward-facing eyes of a predator.
I wish I could wish for clinging toes-
feet that may leave dusty prints along the
meringue texture of my ceiling;
for a long, spongy tongue to soak up every
scent and granule of the atmosphere around me-
smoke, vapor, tiny flakes of skin and the genetic code
imprinted on each. I say: what I’d give for eyes
that see in facets more than three dimensions.
My rancid breath might, then, fill another being
and turn them from stone to flesh,
or from flesh to fire, as any God can raise
the dead to life, and a person
in his way of seeing-
not strictly black & white
or even gray, but in tones and shades far beyond
man’s ocular capability.
I would bend myself into an
impossible position and look out through my heels,
my head where my feet ought to be, finding
new angles of humanity.