That Feeling of Impending Doom? Impending Doom.
Urgent, lurching, cyclone-chartreuse
cloud of household cleaner mismatch?
Whiff of catastrophe from beaker and flask?
Plummeting to enlarging ground that looms and looms?
The uh-oh of wanting and oh-no of having?
Descending grand piano’s widening shadow?
So-and-so in throes of lousy mood?
Swaying in liquor store doorway, repeatedly
triggering electronic eye, repeatedly
ringing two-tone chime, owner repeatedly
wheezing, “No more”?
Startling at dawn, feeling I’ll die of who I am?
Silhouette in midnight farmhouse window?
Lantern light flickering as victim’s here signal?
Bedside table, trial transcript bound in convicted’s skin?
Killer rising fully clothed from river, grinning?
Graveyard lit by lightning?
Clown mask in glove box?
Carnival din—calliope, screaming—from somewhere ill-lit?
Abandoned asylum we’re lured to?
Apex of arc
when object swerves
from rise to fall,
in that instant
neither at all?
Aaron Anstett’s recent work appears or is forthcoming in Fence, Trnsfr, and Upstairs at Duroc, among others, and his collections are Sustenance, No Accident, and Each Place the Body’s.