Amy Baskin

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unseated

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—a view from an impairment

 

 

where is the glove composite compostment department

the hood looks like—

 

 

what’s the word—accordion? an instructment—

a musical fold

 

 

head rests on the seat—shock through my arms trunk legs

fuel is leaking from me

 

 

a slow drip under the mind my

engine is unseated

 

 

help me I am off—I was here and

now I'm here

 

 

see my face and body exit the driver door

not a scrape bruise or break

 

 

what did that big man just say

iam glaad yer okei

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Visual disturbance

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The air is salted, tingling

in a red way

 

through the porthole, light projects

on my eyelids.

 

What sea bird pecks through

my mind, prodding pain,

 

nesting in the knuckle of my fisted skull,

scratching hatchmarks

 

on ganglion ropes? I cannot summon

the spell to shoo it.

 

And when it flutters

away on its own accord,

 

and I scrub my galley clean

of feathers and droppings,

 

it homes back

through the wine-dark sea.

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