James K. Zimmerman

Thought I Was Awake

last night a piece of ceiling fell and no one knew

it did not say a word, just lay there on the floor looking up at where it came from

wondering

last night a tree probably fell in the forest and everyone heard it scream though they wouldn’t admit it

thought they were dreaming but the tree knew better, lying there on the broken ground

last night I found myself on the floor without a blanket or a pillow or a reason

thought I was awake but maybe not

thought I saw people on the wall like flies compound eyes, round furry bodies, staring at me

waiting for the blood to dry

tried this morning to pick up the plaster, put it back where it came from and fall

into sleep that will not be broken, into dreams that will never be the same

James K. Zimmerman

Once Again

Once again and once again if only once again your eyes could open, eyes could see— mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, someone ’s children once again

Again and once again do you need the darkness, hardened hearts, helpless shrugs, no light to shine, no light to shine once again?

Once again and once again they are children, they are ours, they are yours, they are someone ’s children once again

Again and once again: George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Tamir Rice, Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, Raychard Brooks, Ahmaud Arbery, more and more and more once again

blind to faces, blind to tears you turn your back to them, but now they will not run away again, once again and again

Now it’s you who feel the need to run, hide, to give a helpless shrug, thoughts and prayers you say, pretended sympathy with eyes that do not see that do not want to see

James K. Zimmerman

and with open hands, open wide to money over lives power over heart, you run away once again and again, again and

Never again, the children say Never again once again

James K. Zimmerman

Harvesting Bats in the Living Room

they leave you very little choice as they flutter down the chimney no Santa with his bag of gifts they crash in sooty madness at the ceiling’s white agreement with the wall

you can only bring them to the floor with a stinging swing of a tennis racket or slightly gentler swoop and hiss of a nearby butterfly net

you can only weave a wet web a checkered flag of soggy towels frayed and heavy over leather wings and feathered ears

you can only quell the swelling fear of bloodlust and rabid death by breathing deep in rhythm with metallic chirps and frantic flapping

as you bring the prehistoric creature to the waiting door, swing the towel above you and fling it headlong into palpitating darkness