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Laura Stevenson
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The Wheel
Starts of dreams I'm able to breathe underwater, someone's daughter's sugar, southern-weather voice with Lucky Strikes she tries to cover the smell, cover the noises of his mouth, cover the planes of his face, cover the noises he makes.
There's a man and I hate him plainly, nothing fancy in how glad I watched them bury him.
But ever since then, I can feel him all around me, clawing like a crowd, like the weather sucks me in and spits me out.
Understand I am only as he made me, a faithful servant to all of the noise, all of the lights, all the flashing in my head, the sound of his mouth, loud as a crowd, and you're lucky that you're dead because Clemency is tugging me but I'm sorry that she's weak.
Because I won't be merciful, like what got you first in your throat, I will be real, real slow, just like a wheel, turn over.
I'm like a wheel. I'll be real, I'll be real. I'll turn over like a wheel.
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