The great hypnotist

Ashleigh A. Allen

The great hypnotist I loosen my hair in the morning, tap brainwaves, uncork the fog, unveil a map of winter roads. It’s still Eurovision in my bed, choo choo ch'boogie on my toast, and the news of a late morning iceberg divorce rots the atmosphere. There is a
forest nearby, but we don’t surrender there. I
forget that I know – was a child with – people
who’ve been snuffed. So much of what happens,
happens to those I love. We are les enfants
terrible who believe in the sacredness of reclined cattle, live with hopscotch rules, need extra sugar. I tell you about train tracks and onetime land rivers. We travel the routes even if in error or unsought with little no chance of oxbow. It’s not what the hand reaches for but what it grabs that matters, eyes don’t land on other eyes but crevices. Brave foyer farewells end in broken glass cleanups. The point is, we don’t know whose blood this is. Winter exaggerates all over us, candied zest, cinnamon and dry bark down tongue garret, and that’s just the start. The hours are jagged, our time ticket stubbed, the body broken into daily. I’m a child on hiatus, among the rocks, influenced by jazz and its illuminations. At night you speak to me in double dares, have no doubts, free my pulse that vibrates towards the moon like satellite signal. Bloom-cradle my whispers that are second-rate to the names I don’t remember to pray out loud. There’s an omen of hurt in the horns and pain in the portraiture. De temps en temps, we pet our own parachute cord as if to say—in time there’s release. The focus on future humiliates. You lay your head on my lap, plug fingers in my ears, snack on my stare. I search for you in the weather forecast, face west, catch a hum of Louie, Louie.