T. Martinus

I’m struck by fever
every single time you treat me as single.
I’m multiple.
Singular no longer
as I tread along the breadcrumbs
left by the memory
of the trees that have left us.
Breathing no longer
trapped under water
walking on the backs of dolphins
and scratching the tops of jellyfish.
They sting.
I no longer feel it.
Burning up, I am.
I feel the water around me
boiling.
Turn it up!
They yell.
I look around
to see a school.
No, no Charlie here.
But they do smile
in unison
as we are taught to in the morning
before we brush our teeth.

I’m struck by fever.
You miss the point
by pointing at the thermometer.
The temperature is irrelevant
all I want is your hand
on my forehead.
Touch me and tell me I’m still alive
under this.
Covered,
suffocated,
by the sweat of the inevitable.
Let’s move to Antartica.
Watch penguins look distinguished
as they adhere to the rules of the pool
by swimming and not flying.
We weren’t meant to soar

I think
I was told
I remember
incorrectly.

White hairs on bare black skin,
the whites of eyes unseen
stare.
I catch several stolen glances
as a beat cop.
Pickpockets teardropping
my footprints
as I color bears brown
by remembering the existence of mirrors
here in the burning snow.

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Martinus, T. The Bearable Ordeal of the Collapse of Certainties, 2011.