When I wake I’m vacant, meaning
still in the abyss, still human,
pulled out of bed by the listing
of things begging for doneness.
I decide to skip another meal, meaning
I feed myself on whisky and dark
corners before sunrise.
The neighbor’s dog is moaning
his wail again, drawing the sun up
out of the dirt, slow and painful, meaning
the day is coming for us, again.
I sink further into the quiet space
I’ve carved out in the corner, hidden
by the cloak of shadow so when you rise
you’ll pass by me, meaning
you don’t really see me at all.
I have no sons or daughters, no mouths
to feed, which is to say we can leave
at any time. Waking up to someone
each day, it’s a beautiful and captive thing, meaning
you want to poke holes in the floorboard,
open all the windows, pull each door
from its hinge.