A Stranger
Her dark hair slouched onto her shoulders,
not styled, but draped
like a towel over a birdcage
that stopped singing months ago.
I stared at her like a kid seeing a giraffe up close—
spindly, wrong-scale,
cartoon proportions.
She moved like she wandered into the wrong dream,
her pale skin questioning
the borrowed bones beneath it.
An arm swung when a leg should have stepped.
Her first-date skirt she only wore when it rained?
Retired—like last season’s plaid.
I tried sculpting her from memory
but the clay cracked, collapsed in the kiln.
Lifeless pile.
She looked dirtier. Tarnished skin, dark eyes.
Her scent: mildew and vodka’s last breath.
Near her, I felt out of place,
a porcelain teacup hanging from a
deer antler in a coffee shop in County Clare.
She blurred at the edges.
Something familiar seen through expired bifocals.
Oceans apart, same city.
She became what I swore she’d never become.
What I undid before we met.
Stranger.
Not a fellow traveler—
more like a name I forgot to grieve.
An ache meant for no medication.
A feeling to almost remember.
I watched her vanish
like Irish coffee without whiskey,
evaporated heat. Nothing left to sip.
Protected
at 2:07 a.m., my night-guard brother shot a porcupine.
rabid, maybe. or just drunk
on fermented apples and rock salt.
it didn’t matter.
some things are guilty by posture,
some just look too much like a dream
you had last week
where someone kept knocking, not saying why.
he once told me the first rule of night shift
is to never ask questions.
the glock .45 on his hip is always there,
like a birthmark,
he recites john 3:16 before bed—
not for faith. for routine.
the body rolled into the weeds.
he never even clicked on his flashlight.
said he acted on instincts.
this is how we keep
dreams and fears at bay…
by pulling the trigger first.
