CHAINSAW

I wake to
dinosaurs
cutting out shapes
from a flat grey moon

a hangover
blocks the sun
like the shadow of a baboon

the air on my face is cool
silver
the open window
a glass hexagon that stretches
to the ceiling above the bed
I look across at the valley
fog lifting like mountain smoke

I can hear you out the back
spinning in a pile of dirt

each time you cut
into the wood
a piercing shriek that
grinds
hot
ejaculates
explodes

and sparks
fly about
in my ears
and in my heart

Anna Blume