Immaterial

Yesterday I watched a tiny man climb up my rose bush.

Today I saw a woman dangling from a cloud above my house.

Just now, a cobra slithered under my computer's keyboard,

a miniature transcendental Pope sits cross-legged on my mouse

chanting "om" as flames gnaw at the lino in the kitchen;

my toes crawled off to eat some grass,

my hair ran away with my teeth,

said they had better things to do

like go to the sea. Who knows why?

A fly crawled up my nose and I spat him out,

he said he knew the truth

but couldn't tell me because it was a lie.

My eight-year-old was an alien from Nibiru

searching for Atlantis in the kitchen sink and my

teenager played house with a girl down the road.

My husband's horns have started to curl

and his cheeks have sprouted tusks.

This world is too much to endure.

I slithered on my belly to the front yard

where the ants and millipedes promised

safe transport to a realm of beauty and grace

where all my parts stay where they should.

I fear the insects lied—

this place looks maddeningly familiar

and the woman

dangling from the cloud

looks a lot like me . . .