Sleepy heat, all-day drowsing heat,
like the day I died,
not for too long
but dead enough for the back
of a doctor’s truck, rolled in a quilt
from the bed I’d been dreaming in.
Dying is in me—
the near leap off the 5th floor balcony,
the jeep crash with key split on my knee
and forehead veined the windshield.
I don’t know the difference between future
and gone, how to cover these open nerves,
ends that never meet.
Bring me a knit cap, make it snug on the scalp.
Or a pen top to guard the ink
so I won’t spill out.
from Contrary, University of Chicago’s Literary Journal, contrarymagazine.com, Spring 2015