still water growing thick
Evenings, I slithered past the porchlights,
crept into the quiet like a possum into a garbage truck.
I remember the van rumbling loudly to life
and me hushing it: not even the fog lights lit.
The night sky, slow and heavy as magma,
crouched over me when I sat in the driver’s seat,
pressing red bruises into the peel of a peach:
enticing red bruises on my cheeks.
Then the crush of bodies and salt and filth--
that tempest of sharp elbows and slavering tongues,
of skulls twisted into nautilus shells
hurtling endlessly inward.
I sank into their decay.
Revelled in the rattle of cracker-crumbs at the top of my lungs
then gasped in hot air, muggy and sickening as the air inside my house.
And it was all of a sudden as if I had never left;
as if I’d stolen away with a fifth of Jack Daniels between my knees
only to arrive at the same old unbreachable rift:
Her and I almost overlapping on one side
and that wide stretch of horizon on the other,
with everyone I knew standing on it.