“x.” | K. Mouton | Poetry

x.

K. Mouton

Earth spins fast as I move incomprehensibly slowly, sand piling in the pit of my gut.

How many bowls of oatmeal, tins of fish, mugs of coffee, before breakfast loses all meaning?

Far fewer than 526, I can tell you that much.

Large scale pathogenic, humanitarian crisis and my body has chosen to reject the presence of pollen.

I wake up a shark, nose rubbed so raw I smell constant blood. Add a mask and I bring my own fourteen cubic centimeters of copper-tinged air everywhere I go.

Not so new releases include months of asthma, allergies, and incandescent anger.

My own unnecessary prolonged entrapment, bug in a cup longing for release,

I may have tolerated.

But my gran’s? No. Trips to museums curtailed by unparalleled dipshittery. I walk past overflowing bars full of lower halves of faces with the distinct sense that I will never forgive.