Poetry: Michael Sikkema
Creature and the Once-a-Year-House
9 shotgun barrels are wrapped
around a beech tree, hunting
party nowhere
in site, one truck
engine still running, almost
out of gas
7 deer walk backwards
out of pines as
their seams split to mist
Creature figures tiny
wolves inside their head leak
black milk, sniffs
out blood on a salt lick
Coming home after
drinks, scar crawling
across his cheek
Sheriff finds all his
game cams in
the mailbox
covered in blood
A week later
he finds his
truck windshield smashed
cab full of skull-sized rocks
while drunk in the little
cove kayakers interupt
a crane and goose
disagreement that
rises across the lake
Creature light lands on
water miles away
all that eyeball
doubles back
The once-a-year-house
is in me, Creature thinks
in sleep
walls breathe
doors appear
and when you
crane towards
eyeshine, they turn
to stairs, footprints floor
to wall then nothing, no one’s
been here for years, a flash
and a garden then just graves
tools to tend them, step
into the outside, black sun
white sky, bats wheel
and dive, blink and
it’s a normal room
the wallpaper suggests
a nursery
f r O g O r f r O g
O r f r O g O r
f r O g Or f r O g O r
‘’’just a parasite
with a pair of tits,’
Satch would say until the day
The Blank One
opened his face
with a splitting maul,’” Creature
awake now
hears Small Figure whisper
near backwards shadows of
the once-a-year-house
so retreats, swings
by the bear ranch to flirt
with the matriarch. Night is
safer depending on
the TV schedule
so later Creature stares at
the campers asleep
in their mesh tent
makes engine noises
tenderizing
Value and garbage ooze
out of every made thing
Creature fashions
a hatchet out
of an accountant’s scapula
terrorizes a new trailhead
for all the obvious reasons
then gnaws on
a deer carcass tucked under
peat moss for six days
where Creature is
an interstellar polliwog
given to fits
of compassion for tiny
spiders, airplane lights
and a single shaggy
mane mushroom in
the throat of the trail
Sun melts into lake
Then on M-66 the sheriff jams
the brakes, his car goes
into a slide in the gravel
in the story
to the towtruck driver
and everyone else, Creature
was a goddam black bear
must’ve been 3
hundred pounds
Sunday changes tense
same as any. Campgrounds
empty, temps in
the 40s at night, from
the window, Creature
watches the sheriff
watch TV
a fifth of Evan Williams
a sawed off across his lap
Creature lets out
a sustained shriek
sprints to the tree line, arms
outstretched, flapping
dragon wings. No shots fired
O r f r O g O r
f r O g O r
Three nights later
house appears
as sun
sets into it. Creature hears
voices body back into
loops, double edged
moon, corn field, corn
field, soy. Shadows move
unattached to light, a sturdy
click when memory
fits into
time, then figures
rush past windows
Small Figure says
“I get all full
of bees w/ no
one to rub on”
then heavy footsteps
screams, glass breaks
Creature stares at the front
door, voices
spill out the back
contort in willow
branches, reenter
crying, wood splinters
Tall Figure (eyes all white)
walks to the shed
then back to the house
with an axe
Creature never stayed
for the rest before
but this time
a not-human voice, a crash
too many voices and Tall
Figure collapses out
the front door
Another Figure runs out
at full speed leaving a
heavy blood trail behind
disappears into the trees
f r O g Or f r O g O r
When the rescue crew shows up
no cat in east window
front door yawns
kitchen chair on
lawn with scattered glass
and inside, a fried
food contest on TV
the sheriff impaled on
deer antlers
the fridge tipped onto
its back, Creature sits inside
foraging
Michael Sikkema is the author of books, chapbooks, and multiple collaborations all knowable through search engines. He hopes you ask your library to add them to their collection. His current dream is to collaborate with an illustrator on a graphic novel project. He enjoys correspondence at Michael.sikkema@gmail.com.
Image: alumni.berkeley.edu
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