A small portion of me is haunted, at least
the gray matter has grown thin
roots like ivy climbing along the brick partition
between the grout-creases of a crumbling bridge
in a quiet stretch of forest, rattling chains
down a long corridor, vibrating with the violence
of eighteen wheel trucks. Laying in bed
as a child, on the top bunk, and I tell you,
I don’t know how I remember, but
a truck rumbled over a bridge somewhere:
that was the explanation they gave, the standard
response to a shook earth. I dropped
from the bunk and filled a glass at the tap.
A white tail deer passed the window,
grazing on tulips, was gated, corralled by
wrought iron fencing, which lines the steeple shadow,
a long black stripe on the forest floor. The buck speaks
in a language with which I am no longer familiar.
I’m telling you, some days I just don’t know
what the hell is going on in here. Trip the river,
skip stones across it. The palms shake
with every exhale, and who knows how much of this,
due to the countless collisions I’ve incurred, I will remember.
Shake it off, you say, we’re only here.
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