Low Tide in the Skull

The screen door bangs a hollow rhythm out against the frame,

and in the dream I’m calling out a long-forgotten name.

A stranger’s hand is on the leash, a casual, steady grip,

while I am stuck in molasses, watching the distance slip.

There is a half-eaten peach on the glass of the kitchen table,

a fuzzy, bruised reminder that the world is never stable.

The light is gray and heavy, like the bottom of a lake,

the kind of quiet mourning that you carry when you wake.

It isn't blood or monsters that have brought me to this heat,

just the sight of an old dog turning a corner of the street.

I’m sitting up at three a.m., the pillow soaked and cold,

weighing all the pieces of the things I couldn't hold.