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.