Marc Rahe

Felix's Helixes
New Poems From the USA

 

What is it makes me
hear in the sound of my air

coming on, the sound
of a zombie-dragged foot?


My father isn't particularly
skittish. I'm at home alone.

I don't look behind me.
I look like my father.

I'm writing. The room dims
and brightens with sunlight.

More lines,
the scar on my father's lip.

I'm writing lines in the light.
I've been dead twice,

clinically. What makes me ready,

when I hear the neighbor's
door slam, my apology?