petersburg
words by Gillian Chapman
illustration by Sharada Mujumdar
here it comes—
the edges of my frail mind
falter and fade. dreadful closet walls, dirty and mangled, sick yellow paper, turn, twist, tighten,
swallow whole.
through the dingy apartment esophagus
i am thrown into the stomach of the street suffocating summer sweat
like swirling bile.
in the sky, the sweltering sun sighs,
settling down for sleep. oh, this world!
a fever seeps inside me now, rustling
the detritus buried in the murk of my skull,
the scum that i am.
fitful and convulsive machinery,
spasmodic anatomy,
land conquered by fear.
oh, sorry sight! napoleon on his knees, brought down to beg. watchful eyes glimmer along the streets, marbles shimmer
in sunset light, piercing yellow orbs
catlike and silent.
ants, ants, ants! their words and whispers— criminal, knave, pariah!
the moon, all round and bright, sits plump in the black sea like a kopeck.
nighttime air drinks me, drains and digests dregs of breath from convulsing lungs. here i lie, at the assail and besiege
of fever-filled dreams,
again in the mouth of the beast, awaiting the gnash of its teeth.