The Front Porch Rots in Reverse

The universe has a hole in it. I slashed it
open with my claw in an animal rage.

I couldn’t stop from gnashing my teeth, 
and find a sharper bite still, as I step into

the torn fabric and drag time back through,
a needle pulling thread. Like mercury, 

tears ball up on the wood porch, roll
up my cheek, meet at the well, evaporate

back into oblivion. His mouth runs
backwards, words backmasking, the strange 

tongue. His hands weave in reverse,
gesturing wildly, indignant, then  

fold themselves in his lap, the same
hands that served and prayed and swept

the curls from his wife’s face when
she cried, the very same. Simultaneously,

the mailman moonwalks across the lawn,
concern wipes from his face as he pulls

a stack of junk mail from the slot—
the credit card offer, election flyer.

Members of The Fellowship return
to their days with nods and waves

and do you do hows. He stands and steps
back from me. The car pulls me in, shifts

into drive and disappears around the corner. 
Things were always this way, happening

in reverse, and then they didn’t happen at all.