I would have you hold me again,
but I am frightened.
The water fills the shower ankle deep
When I was small I swore it was possible
to go down the drain. Nothing she said
could convince me otherwise. She was wrong.
I need to move away from here.
My dog has become anxious
There are gunshots every night.
I swear she dreams of chasing the bus you left on.
She whimpers so loud, Sirius has started to complain.
I close my eyes and try to count 10 but can never make it
past six – I am worried that when I close my eyes the North
Star looks for a way out.
I would hold you again, but I am uneasy.
Like that muggy august night when I saw
a coyote sulking and wet under a streetlight
on Sepulveda. It was strange, no one was out.
So strange, you couldn’t believe it
but I shake all the time.