Psycho
by Asmaa Azaizehcareful
do not think
this is about me
a cheap fiction, this self
a tunnel underground
and the steps of language leading down
all gnawed away by mice
rock like loose planks
the one time I tumbled in, I heard hoots of laughter rising from my belly, full of phrases
I have to say to you, the similes that are in fact like nothing, the words I stuff your ears
with day and night—day night tree bird cloud grass sun—as I work in a neon-lit office
that one time, my ears rang without mercy
I covered them and ran to the top floor
to write poems about humanity and the ugliness of war
about aloneness in the existential sense
about the love that gets around by hearse
poetry hoots in the tunnel
eyes wide in the bluish skull
like sheep to slaughter
and slowly my voice rises
in the name of God the Merciful the Compassionate
day night tree bird cloud grass sun
the words’ necks shine
ready to be shorn