Saturation

The denim is suctioned tight to my skin,

letting the chill of the sidewalk in.

I’m standing in the kitchen, a leak in the floor,

hearing the wind rattle the frame of the door.

It feels like I’m wearing a suit made of lead,

a heavy reminder of words that I said.

I’m shivering now as the puddle goes wide

around the wool sock that I’ve cast to the side.

I don't have the heart to pull off the shirt.

I’ll just stay here in the damp and the dirt,

weighted and anchored and soaked to the marrow,

feeling the space in the hallway go narrow.