San Fran Fiasco
The first blast of a bell
is cast to catch our attention.
Everyone looks the same
direction, but they’re looking
the wrong way, that ring’s
a ricochet, as if someone,
a great uncle perhaps, has
mimicked your gait and timbre,
bathed in your Drakkar Noir,
and tortured your dog into talking.
So, in a fit of tit for tat when you
get in late from your fateful date
it chomps your throat out.
Earlier, Angie, your neighbour
who insists she keeps seeing
your dead sister, had joined you
at that joint downshore; her eyes
were the glass of abandoned
aquariums. Eating her out
of house and home in back
of your Fiat, your sister rapped
on the pane, “I’ve been camped
in the belfry all along,” she said,
so as to relieve your suspicions,
“and they’re not glass
Jeramy Dodds‘ first collection, Crabwise to the Hounds, won the Trillium Award and was shortlisted for the Griffin Prize. His translation of The Poetic Edda appeared in 2014.
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