Disassociate
.
Shouting from the other room –
cannon bursts and bomb blasts;
the words are undecipherable
but they all mean anger and sadness.
I fold in on myself,
I tighten the angle of my hips
long past acute
until I slide between the couch cushions.
The foam from the cushions has crumbled to sand
and the forgotten popped popcorn kernels
remain on the beach to repel an amphibious attack
that happened years ago.
Surfside, two green army men keep watch,
one sitting on the ground in a sturdy kneeling stance
grimly staring down the barrel of his machine gun, fingers frozen
in place, unable to pull the trigger and lacking the bullets if he could.
The other man has toppled over so I help him back to his feet,
balancing him on the plastic base his feet are melted into,
his knees and waist bent, ready to charge forward
if he could only get unstuck.
I rip off the tag sewn into the couch’s fabric and wave it over my head,
not to declare a new nation but promising to be no trouble.
The noises continue. I lay down, cover myself
with the tag and hide until all is quiet.
Jeremy Wm. Farrington is a lawyer and the father of twins. After years of study, he’s concluded that good times can create great oldies but not the other way around. His work has previously appeared in Disjointed, Remington Review and on the VonRenzo album, Intention and the Adequacy of Delusion.
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