I wasn't falling No one had a knife

I wasn't falling. No one had a knife.

I was just at a dinner with everyone I knew.

It was a normal Tuesday in a normal life,

and the light in the room was a pale, weak blue.

They were laughing at a joke I didn't hear,

passing the bread and the wine down the line.

I reached for my water, but as I drew near,

I saw the glass was empty—only mine.

It was bone-dry and dusty, a hollow bell.

I waited for someone to notice the lack,

to pour me a drop, to break the small spell,

but they all kept their chairs turned away, back to back.

There was a ring of moisture on the wood

where a cold drink had been, a ghost of a sweat.

I woke up smelling the cedar, and stood

in the kitchen, feeling a grief I haven't named yet.