I bought a book of poetry titled
depression is a thunderstorm and i am a scared dog
and I wanted to revise it, change ‘depression’
to ‘life’. I think about you every time
I use the step stool in my kitchen to reach a plate
or shot glass, think of how much taller your ladder
must have been. I’ve begun to notice
there are little things everywhere that can kill me.
I won’t open an umbrella inside. This has been
a year from hell and I need some luck. Everything
is a bad omen. I won’t even stand near
the microwave when it’s on. On Saturday
I watched a documentary where a man climbs
nearly 3000 feet without a rope
and reaches the top unscathed. I felt sick
thinking of you falling, the way you didn’t get to see
the sky on the way down. Was it your tiny hands
that failed you? I wish you’d broken a mirror
or stepped on a crack in the sidewalk
so I could stop cowering from everything.
Every ceiling is the one you saw on your way down.
Every step a new chance to fall.
