Time Missing1 min read

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I started disappearing when I was five
The doctors called them events
They were not
Nothing is not something
The hole in the wall = crickets/space
I don’t know the leap to other
My people said all the things
‘Looked everywhere’ ‘worried
sick’ they held me a little too hard
I found out they called it
splintering I mean my people
didn’t the strangers did
I don’t know what you know
The light is real not like TV
A door I guess but you don’t go
They come through I don’t mean
they have bodies
I was unclear I don’t mean
Space opened up
I opened into space
They warned me
I’m trying to get this right
I don’t mean this
as recall the others told
me this I don’t mean
the strangers the others
are me the splinters
Each time becomes
its own they warned
me it hurts at first
They give memory body
but color it strange
In this one I was taken to
replace a drowned son was
fed bear grease was lashed
down in a hickory canoe
I thought up at the sky
I started coming as others at
age ten the first story through
the door I don’t remember
It’s all right I could make
it for you we’re pretty much
the same I didn’t mean
that as a threat
I understand all
the strings better
as a sheet the first time
we switched places
I got dizzy and puked
When they stepped through
the door the transference
It was me split speaking
into my thoughts but
the strangers too outside
tall softly glowing I did it
again I don’t mean we have
bodies but we flickered enough
to seem so I’m trying
to get to the point

Michael Sikkema

Michael Sikkema

Michael Sikkema is the author of three full length collections of poetry: Futuring, January Found (Blazevox Press), and May Apple Deep (Trembling Pillow Press). He’s also written several chapbooks and collaborative chapbooks, most recently Time Missing from Grey Book Press. He is the editor of Shirt Pocket Press. He believes in you and enjoys correspondence at [email protected].
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