Never did I dream
A pile of dead baby
Would delight me,
But their carcasses’
Resurrected the splendid smell of
Childhood cotton candy.
They didn’t ask to be pulled from peace;
Born into arduous existence
In the ceiling above my bed—
The bed of a man who will burn
Himself to cinders just to seduce
A constantly rotting dream of silence.
It isn’t their fault
— they are worried —
Scraping the skeleton of home,
My skull, searching for a neuron
Untouched by Terror.
Maybe if I climbed into their bed,
With matches and intention
I would set them both down
And join the raccoons
— start scratching too,
Grinding my fingers into shriveled, burnt matches —
Dying to reach the baby me below
Who somehow always slept so soundly
Not hearing the world inside.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thomas Ferriello is a recent graduate from the University of North Florida where he studied English and Creative Writing. He reads, writes, and tries to play the piano so people will think he is cultured. It’s yet to work.