I SWITCHED THE MOON WITH HAM
I wake up with the ham shining
through the window on my face.
Window panes cast intersecting shadows
on my astronaut sheets.
The steady plip of the bath tap
undulates in my upside ear and a cat mewls.
A vague desire for the ham’s mystical properties
fills me with pride and angst
I mistakenly attribute
to the turmoil existence defines for me.
I was born on a full ham.
Mother called me her little ham child.
When the ham turns the oceans mad
I feel my head open, a kind of phalanx
of moth escape my brain and be sucked
up through the shaft of ham light.
It is part of me that is pulled toward the ham.
It is not pleasant to think of moths on ham.
It is like maggots clinging
to a malodorous slab of oneiric meat.
But that is where these moths come from
and where they must return to.
By Luke Bloomfield