Theory of Displacement

by Marc Kipniss

I'm standing in the garage next to a shelf that has tomato cages and bags of birdseed on it. A mouse hops off the shelf. I step away. The mouse runs across my shoulders. Little claws scratch at my neck. I reach my hand up to get the mouse off me, but now the mouse is bigger and crying, like a crying baby, a baby I cradle in my arms and walk into the house with. The setting, I know, has been lifted from my childhood, it's the house I grew up in, as well as the garage. This is always the case in my dreams, the setting suddenly goes back, or over-there are always crying babies. I walk in and show my wife what happened. I tell my son and daughter about their new sibling. They look at me strangely. My wife does, too. The condition of poetry, I say. We should all aspire to the condition of poetry. But this is what I always say, and no one even bats an eye.