I think God knew that some of us 

would eat too much asparagus.

I am a caged animal.

My face is against the metal

and the oncoming storm flashes, threatening.

I lie on my back,

contained, out of control, contained. 

I moan and mangle pilled bedsheets

that wrap-strangle my legs.

But kicking feels good, the thump and whomping.

 

I am always stirred by a naked woman

at my door. I will not let her in,

I want to. 

She sits down on the carpet with her

warm back against the wall. Her shadow still, 

outside the door. 

I return to the opening and stare out at the distant, ashy horizon.

(I don’t really ever sleep, more like breathe deeply until the anxiety simmers.)

The lines are flat and motionless

but I feel the rumbling in my chest

like a growl. I will die alone, probably.

 

My visitor leaves without saying anything. Anything.

Just sits in his chair, then he’s gone.

When he leaves he leaves what looks like some

oily, important car part that fell off when it jumped a pothole.

I don’t ever touch it or move it.

If he wants it he’ll have to come and get it himself.

I want it.

I know it is for me.

But I don’t know anything. 

 

I keep wondering about that naked woman.

*************************************

I break my plate on the floor, I spin

around, devlish, until I slip

on pieces. I sit on my bed,

I slam my back on the mattress, the sheets on

the floor. I kick the door hard until

the shadow moves,

slide down the wall and pull at my elbows,

looking at the ceiling, the ceiling, the wall.

 

I find that if I tilt my head back

and press my skull into my palms

it deadens something, my senses, and I can sleep.

Two times, and I don’t wake up on the third.

What would my mother think?

*************************************

My mother dreams that I will come visit

and bring her grandchildren.

I run in her backyard with the dog.

With the purpling sky, my wife and I 

come in and pick up the littlest, all of us out of breath.

We pray and eat rice and shish-kabob on skewers.

There is so much laughter that it

takes us two hours to eat.

I dry the dishes she washes

and she cries a little because of the sadness

that is no longer around anywhere, just love.

The night bends down with board games

and movies, the screen door keeping out

mosquitoes, but letting coolness in.

At the end, in fresh sheets, everyone

beds and falls into deep, dreamless sleep.

Only breath and moonlight,

only breath and heat.