XV

Choices We Don’t Make

I hate motels. I think I can hear electricity. 

The vending machine hums in a dialect I want to understand. 

There’s a shoe stuffed in the icebox,

And a name hanging by the door, locked behind teeth. 

My shadow doesn’t follow me. 

It darts ahead, waiting for me around every corner.

This morning it packed a suitcase. 

I didn’t ask where it's going. We know it’s over. 

I think I buried a question under my tongue.

Roots pierce my chin, pin my tongue, crack my teeth. 

I think I found a worm. 

I don't know if open suits me, but it’s too late now. 

Last year I swallowed a sunrise,

And it’s still trying to find its place inside me. 

Light churns my stomach, beams between ribs. 

I can't tell if I'm glowing or burning. 

The vending machine flickers. The static is sharp.

I think I finally understand what it’s saying. 

A can drops. I don’t remember making a choice. 

I wish I didn’t.

Dorothea Blythe