This poem began in a dream state
in which I was forced to dive
myself into
oblivion.
I woke up guilty
for being me, sometimes
not in the mood for interruption
or an eruption inside my brain.
My brain is a terrible rainbow
obsidian with cracked edges
covered up by dark glass.
A strange combination
of natural and unnatural
elements fused together.
When spiraling down,
I don't want to be
a broken canine tooth
growling, shoved inside
someone else's throat or eyes or ears.
A synaptic middle of another
crash. Vehicle smashed against another
wall then suddenly waking up underwater,
confused about what happened when.
Is this the beginning or the end or
somewhere in between again?
I move towards the underground mirror,
unsure if I'll see myself or a swordfish or
a mermaid looking back at me.
Is a sword penetrating
one part of my brain?
Some of my words are little fish
swimming around in circles
inside me, unable to fully emerge.
Stuck in my gushing head,
one small part of myself
longing to be luminous and
maybe I am...
Juliet Cook doesn't fit inside an Easy-Bake Oven and rarely cooks. Her poetry has appeared in a peculiar multitude of literary publications. She is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks, most recently including "red flames burning out" (Grey Book Press, 2023), "Contorted Doom Conveyor" (Gutter Snob Books, 2023), "Your Mouth is Moving Backwards" (Ethel Zine & Micro Press, 2023), "REVOLTING" (Cul-de-sac of Blood, 2024), and "Blue Stingers Instead of Wings" (Pure Sleeze Press, 2025). Her most recent full-length poetry book, "Malformed Confetti" was published by Crisis Chronicles Press. You can find out more at https://julietcook.weebly.com/.
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