Midnight Water

The mustard jar is a yellow eye

staring from the shelf where the shadows lie.

I fill the glass until the rim is wet,

trying to pay a debt I haven't met yet.

The water tastes of iron and of pipe,

heavy in the gut before the fruit is ripe.

I lie back on the sheets and feel the bone,

the hip a hard ridge where I am alone.

The skin is pulled like a drum across the frame,

and every swallow has a different name.

The floorboards creak and the ceiling is gray,

waiting for the light of a different day.