Monster by Michael Mercurio

When I met your mother she was a fox
in a field.  Your father smoked.
I don’t know where I go
when you cover your eyes.

Our sun sits in a watery sky but doesn’t sizzle or go out
when clouds cover it. Kid, you’ve got to keep asking.
What I don’t know may kill us both. Zoos and circuses
hold animals, not solutions. In this light

I am an island
of shadow across your kitchen floor
between you and the fridge.

You won’t cross over the dark
exaggeration of my shape;
I won’t move from the window.

No idea why falling stars drop or if they’re sharp. Listen
to me: don’t listen to me. By the time my wisdom makes
a dent your world has changed.

Just you looking at me makes me different.

First appeared in Crab Creek Review (Spring, 2018)

Michael Mercurio is a graduate of Lesley University’s low-residency MFA program. His work has appeared in the Indianapolis Review, Crab Creek Review, and poems2go. He lives in the Pioneer Valley with his wife and two Miniature Schnauzers. He can also be found online at poetmercurio.com.