Benjamin Russell

Fugue State

In my hand I’m holding
a can of tuna in aisle five
when the lights go out.
No one is moving.
The guy stocking shelves
with the punched in nose
says wait for the generators.
The butcher is balancing
steaks, the cashier has frozen
peas in her hands.
Nobody’s moving.

Six years old, I’m hiding
from my parents again:
pulled the panel off the wall
in the closet, climbed
into a crawl space under
the stairs. I spy my parents
ascend and descend the stairs
through a crack. As if
they were actually searching
for me. My childhood:
a cobwebbed cave.

The generators kick in.
Why am I holding
this can of tuna? How
did I get out from under the stairs?
How the darkness held me
just long enough to get here
is incomprehensible.

 

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