Oisin

ii.
Yesterday, the fog rose
and it beaded condensation on my steering wheel. I
shifted numbed fingers, peered. A morning breaking,
keeping me. Dawn settles on my bones these days;
the feel is like grit beneath my eyes. Sleepless,
sleepwalk. My chest is heavy. I lend myself to grace,
I know these roads.

A stag was standing in my marsh.
I lingered to watch him, we watched each other,
frost circles curling from nostrils, my thready pulse perhaps too loud.
I counted, six points. My hands were trembling
and he held himself;
he held his ground, held those stiff and sleek-slick muscles to quiver. Waiting, birdsong.
I could keep him from his water.
He could keep me from my day.

I broke and turned to drive.




i.
Yesterday, the night fell
in soft grayed curtains, a downy sort of mist over these hills. I
shifted numbed fingers over the keys. The screen was flickering like the
candle in the corner, something
dripping from the wick. A smoky drag dug in my chest, husky fatigue.
I'd found a picture of you. It wavered on my screen like an unfinished word:

When you had golden hair.
When you could smile without whiskey,
Veins without tracks. At least the hurt in you was fresh
and clear, at least a focused gaze, at least you hadn't left it, and it stung;
Aching, our nights alone, and tea gone cold and bitter on my teeth.
You could keep me from my breathing.
I could hold you in your grave.

I broke and turned away.