You tilted your head
to drink the run-off
from the gutter;
wanted to fill
your belly with insects
dead, alive
and leaves
and bird eggs.

I ripped “I try” into
my palm
and had to wash
the small bottle of Tylenol
before I placed it back on the shelf.
When you got home,
I missed a spot.
I swallowed it
with a glass of milk,
my lips stained.
You pushed them clean
with your thumb.

I imagined you drowning.
I saw your face
in the window-glass,
You lifted your hands
pressed them
on the bathroom window,
pushed inside.

Note: LANDSLIDE is published in the 2011 edition of RiverCraft.

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