There was a hippo in the kitchen. No one knew how it got there, or when, but there was undeniably an enormous, sloppy, disheveled hippo in the kitchen.
"And," I said, examining the lunch my mothe
...
[+]
Steve Denehan lives in Kildare, Ireland with his wife Eimear and daughter Robin. He is the author of two chapbooks and four poetry collections. "Winter Dark" is in Short Circuit #11, Short Édition's quarterly review.
I wake, creaking
the room is cold
the house is silent
the day waits
I tell myself to get up
the instruction is ignored
I tell myself to get up
on the count of ten
I count to ten
twice
lie there
on my back
in the only piece of warmth
for miles around
again, I count to ten
sit up, stand up
notice that I grunt now
in the sitting
in the standing
I walk to the bathroom
sore hip
sore knee
I open the door
the sound
quiet any other time
machinegun loud now
winter dark
warm feet
cold tiles
I fumble for the light switch
the flash
overloading my eyes
the bulb blows
with a small pop
winter dark, again
just one half second of light
time enough
to create
an entire universe
the room is cold
the house is silent
the day waits
I tell myself to get up
the instruction is ignored
I tell myself to get up
on the count of ten
I count to ten
twice
lie there
on my back
in the only piece of warmth
for miles around
again, I count to ten
sit up, stand up
notice that I grunt now
in the sitting
in the standing
I walk to the bathroom
sore hip
sore knee
I open the door
the sound
quiet any other time
machinegun loud now
winter dark
warm feet
cold tiles
I fumble for the light switch
the flash
overloading my eyes
the bulb blows
with a small pop
winter dark, again
just one half second of light
time enough
to create
an entire universe