The crush of dead coming off the bus
brushed into pine trees and against
narrow openings in the rock. I squeezed myself
with them & assured my own speed. Knew
I’d beat them. And I did, ignoring everything.
Shoplifted self home, where I could finally crack
the vacuum seal and smell the fresh scent of death,
or open-ness, or whatever.
Footsteps crunched behind me, and I thought
“I’ll just slip into this house here, my house
up the front steps, and escape.” But it’s not my house
it’s our house, and it’s the one tenant
I hadn’t met. We introduced ourselves. She turned
To the front door and locked it. Fingers tight as bone
delicate as glass. She left.
I knew those fingers. I met them in a lake once
standing belly-deep in mud, that summer
I pretended I was alive. It was easy
shouting jokes from the back seat
or driving everyone home. In one of those moments
you can’t get back, we stood together
while everyone else did cricket calls, and she said
“Feel my heart, you can feel my heart
It wasn’t that I felt more loyalty to the others
shouting curses across the empty lake.
I just wanted to go home
and think about it.
I dived under the water and she
turned back to the front door, and locked it
with her fingers clicking like firing pins
leaving me where I was.