Release

The sky is dimming into rain,

like a stain spreading its boundaries

and darkening the cloth underneath.

The light turns yellow, then greens

and grows heavy; thunder beats slow

and unsteady, thinning to silence.

It is an early twilight

in the apartment tonight.

I walk from room to unlit

room, each space the same

slate-gray.

You have been washed out of my

towels and sheets, the shower.

All the other proof you packed

and took with you.

Lightning flutters, skittish

a moth beating blind

against the glass door, wanting

flame against its dust body,

wanting in—skipping breaths—

my window is a flat screen

set in the lemon wall. Even the empty

space has been barred over,

screening me in with metal teeth.

All I can do is half

open the glass, hope for a direction in the breeze

to send some new air in. Mine is a slow burn.

I watch other screens

across the lot,

a spectrum of narratives

beginning, pausing

in patterns of shadow and light.

I wait, ready for

action—the ceiling fan

the only breath

rasping against this static air—

There is one woman, third floor,

washing dishes

at her window sink. She does not see me

but holds up a cup

to check for soap.

I can write her angry, insane adulterous,

have her fling down that cup

for the fine sound it will make

smacking against tile, for

the shatter—

I can let her wash plates

full from a meal,

maybe

she wants to rinse silverware,

content

to walk to the next room

where the television

throws wild light against the walls,

violet and indigo. Maybe

she is hoping

I will take my body

away from her window tonight

do something

more with this life, with this poem.

E-mail: courtneyqueeney@hotmail.com


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