I Wanted to Say Yes

The doctor examining me asks if there has been a trauma to my eye. He is looking through my pupil, somewhere inside of my head. He sees damage. I'm not surprised.

The street light filters through long curtains, making the room blue and black. He takes off his clothes. There is a large tattoo covering his lower back. "Use me like a toy," he says. Even though that had been my intention, I no longer want to.

I have been thinking about how much I love the sound of the local woodpecker, working his way through the telephone pole up the hill.

I have been thinking about how hard this winter will be, waking up before dawn and without the spread of light from across the bay.

I have been thinking about one local idea of glamour, high heels with jeans and French manicures, like hooker-housewives from the 80's.

I have been thinking about my volunteer crew, how eagerly they tore in to their new case files, and how many of them left our last meeting with wet eyes.

I have been thinking about all the remains of past life, all the dormant art curled up in shreds of paper, as I edit down for the move to our next home.

I think a lot. I just don't write.