I DREAM OF THE BUS TO HELL
I find myself propelling down
a metal road steep as the escalator
at the Toys R Us in Queens
where I had to ride backwards
to quell my nausea.
With vacant eyes, riders stare
don’t rise, but I do.
There is a demon driving
muscled and formidable,
barrel chested, pumped
beneath gray suit and vest.
I climb onto a passenger,
stand on his shoulders
he doesn’t even notice.
I push on the ceiling and
the tile comes loose.
My head pokes through
but something tugs at my feet.
SINCE I'M AWAKE LISTENING TO YOU SNORE IN THE OTHER ROOM
Your face is smooth like a child’s when you are sleeping
or in a coma
The chaplain in training at the hospital thought you were
I told her you were my husband and she was
The nurse told you a long story about ice fishing and I
asked her why
Since they put you in hypothermia you needed something
to dream about
I watch you sleep sometimes now amazed at your unimpaired
No buzz of machines, just the pellet stove’s even hum
your asthma mostly at bay
You are used to my asking if you are okay are you sure
are you sure
Lori Desrosiers’ first full-length collection of poems, The Philosopher’s Daughter, is from Salmon Poetry. A chapbook, Inner Sky is from Glass Lyre Press. Her poems have appeared in New Millenium Review, Contemporary American Voices, BigCityLit, Blue Fifth Review, Pirene's Fountain, The New Verse News, The Mom Egg, The Bloomsbury Anthology of Contemporary Jewish-American Poets and many more. She publishes Naugatuck River Review, a journal of narrative poetry and lives in Westfield, Massachusetts. http://loridesrosierspoetry.com
Andrew Abbott (born 1979) resides in Portland Maine. He uses pink duct tape to draw pictures around the town. He can be found easily on Facebook.