An October Dream

An October Dream

I.
My chest hurts this morning –
it is a Saturday and it is cold and
I’m alone. I walk down the thirteen
steps to the street, hands fisted inside my jacket.
The last farmer’s market huddles on
the edge of Marion Square.
Bright tents hang stark against the grey October sky.
I smile at the man who hands me my coffee.
My chest hurts this morning, a tiny ball of fire in
my sternum, grinding a way out. I clutch my coffee
through quiet, waiting King street, watching my hands.
Breath catches on every exhale – it is just cold enough to see.
Down Market street, the edges of people’s souls
trail out of theirs mouths.

II.
She puts her hair down,
the edges shining in the sunlight behind her.
Here in the middle of this war, she is beautiful.
The world is dying everywhere,
and all that matters is the way she breathes.
Gives herself to the wind blowing
her hair in through the last of this day,
falling over my face.

III.
It is Monday, and warm.
I sit on the edge of Charleston and two
gleaming jet fighters roar in over the river,
running their patrols with missiles and bombs and
pointed noses full of .50 caliber ammunition.
They’re so close I can see the men inside.

IV.
Her blue eyes fill mine. My chest hurts again.
She says,
“The room we’re in is burning down,
and we’re just standing
staring at each other.”
All I can feel is the kernel of furious flame in my chest,
Hollowing me.


V.
It’s Thursday, and cold again, and I’m alone,
pen in hand. The clock above my desk
is stopped at 1:35 and two seconds
and I have no idea when it
is.