There are pills under my nightstand.
The same ones tearing holes all over the house.
They’re tucked away in darkness and dust, forgotten caverns that only I can enter.
The same ones that wake us at night.
They scream from their hiding places, echoing vibrato shedding dust from our old drywall.
The same ones that reach my mother.
They make her feel lost, like she sees paths to something shameful and can’t find any others.
There are pills under my nightstand.
You and I
were once the two separate sides
of the same electrical cord;
often tangled between each other,
building knots and kneading bundles of bridges
on top cedar, oak and birch floorboards.
There are old journals on my bookshelf
blank pages at the back
filled with unfinished poetry
similes with no synonyms
metaphors with no meaning
Snow forts built of packed wet flour
in a big orange plastic bowl,
S q i u s h
and unfold like an origami fortune
of milky dough and chocolate chips.
