Oral History

Midnight is a thicket of wet wool.

I am shivering in the center of the bed

while the house stretches its joints.

I found the glass rod in the dark,

a cold line of logic for the blood.

My teeth were chattering too fast.

A sharp snap—not loud, but final,

the taste of grit and something metallic.

The mercury is a heavy, silver secret

sliding toward the back of the throat.

It doesn't want to be measured.

It wants to fall through the floorboards

and pool in the dirt where it’s quiet,

away from the heat of a body

that can't decide if it's burning or cold.