by Joe Dahut
Turn the door knob as if picking ripe figs.
Spin the wrist and pull your harvest
to arrange the gears of this door. Open
to the fan blade’s chatter against a dusty pull cord,
like pens at the bank, where I felt pressure
in both temples today, instead of just one.
Bedside, the room shakes off its coat
and dresses itself black. There is nothing
but statements on the dresser and a belt
hanging from the switch of an Ikea floor lamp,
its leather notched on hole closer to nothingness
where eventually, I will skinny into a sleep
where the pressure dies off, where the hunger
subsides, where even my dreams are deserts.
I am kneeling on the tile, praying for someone
to rescue me from everyone but myself.
Joe Dahut is a poet, essayist, and educator living and writing in the Florida Keys. He earned his MFA in Poetry from New York University, where he taught creative writing. Joe’s poetry and prose can be read in The Shore, Saw Palm, The Drake, The FlyFish Journal, Clade Song, and Little Patuxent Review, among others.