Sometimes a foggy spring morning,
petrichor rising, the earth still yawning —
I rush to the car, pat my pockets, and freeze.
The keys on the counter. The day on its knees.
Sometimes the full moon, too bright for the hour,
exposing the garden, the weed and the flower.
I stand at the window, skin damp, half-aware,
convinced something's watching me standing there.
Sometimes the doorbell. I enter. A hush.
Faces arranged in a breathless rush —
then shoulders relax, the smiles go slack.
The party's not for me. They want someone back.
Sometimes the rain finds my shoulders, inflamed
from carrying what I never named.
It soothes what the waking hours ignore —
the ache I forget till I can't anymore.
---
'Tis the place between dreaming and wake,
where the body remembers what the mind won't take.
I loosen the belt. I stand in the rain.
The robe slips open —
I wake, dressed again.