Derek Annis
—
Dysgeusia
I live in a city encircled by fire.
The ants are buzzing.
I’ve acquired a rifle from the honeymaker’s son,
who’s late to the wedding
again. Every time mother washes her hair
down the drain, a plate of figs appears
on my ottoman. They’re sweet as children
in a river of mud
with their mouths open wide like baby birds
on an autopsy table. Little fluorescent ribs
smoke like a notion of home. I was there once,
in the retina of a mouse, helpless
as a horse on springs, dead man’s face
on the pillow next to mine.
Nothing will ever taste as good as that.
I’ve run out of ice. My spoons
are losing blood.
Excision
Father had anvils for hands. Solid lead retinas. Fingers growing out of his
throat. He stuck his buckshot tongue to a fir tree in the shady back acre of
our property. Magpies still come by to shake the salt from it, use its shine
to sharpen their little knives. Father could taste a storm from a mile away. He
could strike sparks from ivy vines and set fire loose on the town like a pack
of wild hogs. He drank whisky straight from the barrel of his rifle. He let his
biggest voice undress atop the table and piss in everyone's drinks. He never
married. He could bury anybody. They say he's still out there somewhere,
stuffing his ears with hornets and cutting the bones from his feet.
Derek Annis is a neurodivergent poet from the Inland Northwest. He is the author of Neighborhood of Gray Houses(Lost Horse Press) and the associate director of Lynx House Press. Their poems have appeared in The Account, Colorado Review, Epiphany, The Gettysburg Review, The Missouri Review Online, Poet Lore, Spillway, and Third Coast, among others.
© Bear Review 2025
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Site Design + Build
October Associates
