Je Ne Sais Pas

  In a room seven by ten feet,

  I sleep, restless and aware

  of the unruly red writing

  beneath the heavy floor stain.

  I wait, in brass-cradled bed,

  for muffled, blocked light

  to seep through my alley window

  and soak my whitewash white

  dresser clean of night.

  Eventually, it comes,

  crawling on faded footsteps,

  belly dragging

  over thrown clothes

  lying in frozen poses.

  I lie out of light's reach,

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  limbs askew, flat,

  like some Egyptian stance.

  My thoughts are birds

  that fly in an erratic cloud

  from nothing, then place to place.

  My head, with predatory reason,

  slips and lisps into snake shape.

  I dream I remember I once

  had spoken French

  as a child with time before

  school. My life seemed unlit,

  through eyes both open and slit.

  My past was an egg all full,

  but blank and unopened,

  its origin so foreign to me now.

  - Kat Isacson