One man jerks out both eyes
as if to say, I will not see
what you want to show me.
A woman yanks off her fake leg.
She will not walk with me to
where it is.
There’s children who lift
the roof of their heads,
exhume the brain,
so that, even in the presence of
what I display to them,
their senses will make no connection.
But how am I to avoid it,
willed as it is to me.
Eyes and brains and limbs
are not the offenders here.
Nor can I rip away my ears
to ignore the invitation
or twist my nerve ends,
short circuit each sensation.
In other words, this is what I am.
Tear free the clapper
and it’s still a ringing bell.
John Grey is an Australian born poet who works as a financial systems analyst. Recently published in Bryant Poetry Review, Tribeca Poetry Review and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Pinyon.
13magazine 