Eyes Closed
he said
“your jaw tenses a little more at 3am-
you sweep the room when you wake up”
i raced raindrops on the window in response
ignoring his knuckles turning white on the wheel.
i swore those mountains would make me a poet
and i’d find a way to make it beautiful
So when i closed my eyes that night
willing myself to hold still in those arms
i tried to control the narrative
it filtered in slowly
i'm back on that rotting porch
watching the water pool in the slopes of the yard
it takes the gravel from the driveway with it
and i don't know if it's pine or his whiskey I smell
they've rebuilt that porch since the fire
she still asks me to return
says that it won't creak under my weight anymore
and dad sanded the edges
he was always better at swinging the hammer
i used to take two nickels to those splinters
dig them out and press a lighter to the wound
i'd pass the cigarette to my brother
brushing finger with a boy i couldn't save
we'd watch the cherry burn a little brighter
when the wind shifted direction
distractedly.
i'd rub the ash between my fingers
and as it turns to dirt
and i palm the ground
i'm back on the peeling floor of that kitchen
pretending to memorize the lines in the fake tile
and extending comfort to the muffled cries in the laundry room
I count to five on my inhale
the heat in my legs has reached my stomach
rising to meet eyes that mirror mine
his yelling always expelled the air from my chest
there is shift in the axis
i've never taken the first blow
I take a sharp breath before i tense,
thats the last time my lungs felt fulfilled
i wonder if tiff sees his rage
that holds rigid in my stance
blurry parallel lines, the two of us
her laugher echos
faded out background noise
no matter how long i try to focus on it
her breath doesn't smell of pine
there is a glaze in her eyes
the ones i don't recognize anymore
once bright and blue, a mirror of mine
now dull and gray..
a mirror of mine?
is it-
is it raining in this house?
i think its pooling at our feet
he rebuilt that porch
but this foundation is weak
it doesn't support the weight of his bottle
the wind carries me,
i'm standing in that sparse gravel driveway
watching that boy through the window
the flames are stroking the pine tree
and the smoke is consuming my vision
i wake
at the bottom of a exhale
with cramping hands
and a reminder
why i don't close my eyes much
and he and i don't talk much anymore
but sometimes,
i'm racing those raindrops again, wondering
what did he see when the sun rose