Sta.sh
you grow tentacles in the bath,
your alien arms blackmail
you into staying
until the water is an icebox.
you pick yourself apart
blame in your weak bones,
your curlew hair,
your quiet unfurling.
even your dog is sullen and stays
close, whimpers at invasion
and senses pain as seismic shifts,
like there's a stranger in the house
and for the first time in years,
you are afraid of the dark
and the stiff-ache of your body--
a horse too wary to be bridled.
so you wait for it. like madness,
a slow settling of absence. you lie awake
in bed and wait for it to open you up
like a letter--
the postman will step off his red bike,
unshoulder his bag, envelopes will fall out
like threats. the pinch you asked for
will instead be a punch.
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atcha, how goes?
