Tiffany K. Elliott

I Dreamed of Falling through Darkness

Like sitting on edge about to ride the open passenger car
through Space Mountain, not seeing the turns
but knowing one is coming

soon. Also, like poking a baby bunny through a glove
because the thought of touching a maybe-dead thing
not a bunny but the corpse of once-a-bunny, chills
my throat. And like that second
when it seems to move on its own again, though
it was the glove that moved. At least, I think

it was the glove that moved. Also, like the rush of blood
in an ear alongside red words and the sound
of a slap, or was it the slap heard ten years ago. The dark surrounds

like maybe the sun winked out or eyelids closed tight
against the probing lights of oncoming traffic, and I sit
on a precipice waiting for the fall, waiting
for the slap that never quite lands,
and lands, and always lands on my cheek
in the middle of the night with the blood rushing to my skin, to my tear ducts, to
the stigmata’s bloody mark left in the handprint on my face
ten years ago, rising like a bunny’s irrational corpse

again, again the twinned teeth shiver through parted bunny lips,
the mouth a chasm of worms. And a scream
as I plummet through the night, waiting for the hand to jerk.

I am always waiting for that hand.

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