Exploding Head Syndrome
Your bed is a shooting range.
The arrest of texture between pillow and skull
pulls triggers until your ears bleed,
until you are wet with startle, flushed like an animal
from the tunnels of sleep.
Somewhere, bombs fall.
Through foreign air, birds fall in downy heaps.
Not here. Your head is safe in its nest of sweat and hair.
The shots that bolt you are dream shots whose ledge
you can softly count yourself away from
in syllables of light and steam
until a sum is reached
of moth wings, cobwebs, rabbit pelts
that tumble through
the sky’s slit pillow,
that land and explode on impact,
and explode into ash, into aftershocks:
brick on concrete, rebar on blacktop,
battleship on battleship
until you’re awake again.
Not your ships. Not your deadly seas.
Nothing but the rain beating the ground
with its falling. Nothing but your brain
misfiring into its own body.