Popping Bubbles
I.
Clicking Ruby Slippers...
When I open my eyes
I’m able to struggle to the surface
of bed linens, a fight that leaves me
gulping after air, soaked to the bone.
I let feet find floor,
braille out to the hallway,
permit a shiver at the thought
of bare feet on cold bathroom tiles.
Ignoring the ghost-constriction of sheets
and tackiness of skin, I opt for a small dose
of television, burrow into the couch,
thumb the power button on the remote.
Greeted by nothing but a blue screen--
Shit. The cable is out. Crevices and hollows
in the living room fill; blue light puddles
around me. I give up, nod off in the dream.
II.
…Until They Shatter
I open my eyes,
struggle to make out details
through the blue glare of bath water,
as the surface roils inches above my face.
My attacker’s arms resist every attempt
to gouge, scratch or pummel my way to freedom.
I push my neck and head to the limits
of bone, tendon. Before my forehead breaks
the watery plane between life and death,
his face swims into focus--an impossible face,
with twin black tubes for eyes, hollowing backwards
and a rictus smile.
Red fireworks explode in a halo
around his head, plunge into the water.
The hope that neighbors would hear,
investigate, then rescue me is strangled
when I realize the pyrotechnics
are ocular capillaries bursting.
Probably would have been
that downstairs’ asshole, Fennerman, anyway.
That image caroms off,
becomes one of Fennerman, dressed in pajamas,
cursing my name as he sops up all this water
flooding his bathroom from above.
I can’t help but laugh, releasing
giant bubbles of mirth that float up,
then pop against my killer’s arms.
-- Tracy A. Estes