I’m so Small and then You Start to Sway

The fish hook lodged in my brain
probes its freakish proximity

with the harpoon throbbing
behind my sternum. Raspberry

gasoline telescopes dazzle
my little boat, ignite kindling

left in parachutes reckless
to merge with clouds. Walnut

lobotomy, your third eye blinks
at my robot’s nutcracker doll

as if trying on scissors wasn’t
enough ecstasy. Excuse me

for asking, but isn’t that
your armed battle tank revving

under my vegetable garden’s
topsoil? Heroic memories

dismantled, we disentangle
the glacial wine of tarot,

thread ripcord lacings of boots
made less for walking.

Photo by Melyna Valle on Unsplash

Bobby Parrott

Bobby Parrott is radioactive, but for how long? This queer poet's epiphany concerns the intentions of trees, and now his poems enliven dreamy portals such as Tilted House Whale Road Review, Rabid Oak, Diphthong, Neologism, and elsewhere. He lives in Fort Collins, Colorado with his partner Lucien, their top house plant Zebrina, and his flippant hyper-quantum robotic assistant Nordstrom.