by Mike Saye
The foglights grinding across the livingroom ceiling,
down the wall, into the dead air over the front door,
say you’re home.
Just now, from the back porch
I caught glimpses of the church light winking,
oblique as the Pleiades, through a struggle of kudzu
that’s slowly prising down the chainlink fence.
Here, take this watch.
Remember, four times a day, when one hand points to you,
the other will eventually point to me.
Yesterday, I watched our neighbor
stand at her bedroom window
in a bra and blue jeans. She must have been staring
at fog rings coming up out of the field, and I thought
about dying. I know how that sounds.
But, I wondered what it would be like
to turn into something else. A pane of glass maybe.
One of the long panes wedged between the fine oak stiles
that run down the length of the neighbor’s French window,
a vague stand-in for a threshold. No one’s
teacher. No one’s fire-break. A minor barrier
against minor breezes, a place to bank the fog,
a place where ice clusters, nearly harmless,
in delicate filigrees of anti-fern.
Mike Saye is a Ph.D student at Georgia State University. His work has been published in Rattle, Town Creek Poetry, and The Coal Hill Review, among other places.