Panic Room
I smudge the air with sage.
The room becomes a red flag,
a bloody mist silhouette
of all my ghosts.
They rage quietly and formless.
They spit on my closed eyes.
I am a nuisance of a body,
but still a home they can’t leave.
I am my own noisy upstairs
neighbor. I am the carpet
I bought to absorb the sound
of shock existing.
There is the god of spilt wine
After Samuel Ace, “There is the god of white shirts”
There is the god of spilt wine and empty dishwashers the god of a missed dose the god of uncollapsed mines the god of dust bunnies and nail clippings the god of paint there is the god of oversight the god of the forced hallelujah there is the god of kisses the god of please no thank you anyway the god of tuesdays the god of rain puddles and we are still children somewhere the god of open doors and yes you too
and also you
