Thursday, January 3, 2013


I was once a germophobe,
which is a name people give people
with special eyes.
I saw everything.
I saw too much.
I saw sickness hid in the ridges
of one incredible fingertip touching
another. I saw the planets you call bowling balls
and the endless drama of invasion and of civil war
on every computer keyboard’s f and h.

The light turned me insomniac,
or, extremely productive.
I took up writing, the act without end.
I recorded every story I had known,
and all the ones I wished I’d heard, and some
I hoped would never happen.
I let some of my characters sleep, but most
I kept awake with me.
Some drowned, none cried.
I wrote three books in thirteen months.

One morning I woke up, line-faced and rested,
the finished story of a germophobe under my elbow
with spit stains for a title.
I won’t tell you how it ends.