A Shelter without Edges

photograph by Matt Mooney

Curled fists,

I resort to baby talk.

it’ll be okay. it’ll be okay.

I don’t swat at bees, anymore.

Ever since the day I was Alice

and ate LSD, and a tiny bee stung the top

of my head. Like a jolt of electricity,

we just happened to connect. Of course, he died

instantly, his stinger leaving poison enough

for the both of us.

Back to the earth and round again,

I’m redundant with words.

I just want you to feel safe.

Can I keep you curled inside my fists?

I’ll be your shelter when it hails.

I’ll be your mother when you cry over ancient ruins.

I’ll be your map when you disappear from the world.

I see a creek bed not too far off,

we can jump into the murky rivers,

we can fill our cheeks with dirt and curse to the moon -

Howl with me.

Remind me I’m not just buzzing away

one life to the next.

I don’t want the sting of my anger

to kill me.

I just want to feel

for a moment.

The clothes I wear are so heavy like the brick

facade outside my apartment.

The onion sitting on my counter is rotting. The layers peel

away quite prickly.

Everything is a distraction -

my words are garbled and eaten up by my sobriety.

I feel a need

to be wicked.

My palm loosens and I notice you have left

my grip.

Sordid sorrows, how swiftly my sight settles.

With you gone, I feel naked when I sleep on my body’s side.

With you gone, every word I taste and swallow yields a hint of loneliness.

With you gone, my lungs beat haphazardly.

A dissolution into strangers.

We become the ghosts that once haunted us.

I have become lost in my labyrinth.