In the west
a sallow full moon, the color of distressed
metal, has stalled as though
I ever could be righted by
its tidal pull
while the rising sun
refuses to burn
away the tule fog
as my love and I drive the highway north.
No matter
how various we’ve found
this small city, this morning
we take the only route possible
to the heart, to
the one way I can be
rid of something
monstrous, and mine
a single thread tied
to him my home
who will wait
as I am led back
to my body, altered.
Copyright © 2018, the American Society of Anesthesiologists, Inc. Wolters Kluwer Health, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
2018