by IAN RANDALL WILSON
I’ve been cold for five years–
a long time to go without a working heater.
I wake to sheets wrapped tight around the legs
and the hint of something
tricking past the jacaranda out back.
That, or the sparrow’s shrill
from the frame of Eucalyptus trees next door.
Each morning I tell myself another story:
about the year of smoking crack
or last night thinking the car into a retainer wall.
I have decided to start jogging
as a way to outrun the self.
I will wear yellow headphones
and turn up the music
until my ears bleed.
I will pound down the worn track
that angles from grass to dirt
and into grass again
dragging dust in a wash behind me.
I believe there will be a kind of burning
in the lungs, joint damage too.
I have my reasons.
Somewhere, she is sleeping with the knowledge
it is my face
she dreamed last night. Ask me.
I will tell you.
Everything I know.
ABOUT THE POET: Ian Randall Wilson has published two chapbooks, Theme of the Parabola and The Wilson Poems, both from Hollyridge Press. His fiction and poetry have appeared The Gettysburg Review and Alaska Quarterly Review. He has an MFA in Fiction and in Poetry from Warren Wilson College. By day, he is an executive at Sony Pictures Entertainment.
Photo © 2011 Der Wunderbare Mandarin