Dosage

The house sale is Friday, the rooms are all bare,

except for the dust and the ghost of her hair.

I open the vanity, reach for the back,

and find a small bottle, a pill-case of black.

But inside it’s green, like the eyes of the sea,

bits of old bottles she salvaged for me?

No, she just kept them, the edges worn smooth,

a medicine made of the things that can't soothe.

They rattle like teeth in the plastic and light,

a prescription for staying awake through the night.