strand

Strand
by cassie lewis
I jolt awake. Remember beer for breakfast
in seedy bars. Furnishings close in, suddenly, their sweat.
What is this wanderlust
decorating.
Stay here wrestling smallest things,
this broken morning.
It is unremitting —
must I force this door?
Haven. You sit still in your chair,
like an absolution. Each of your knuckles burns
white hot on the armrest. You are a saint,
I just pose as someone awake.
How do I tear this parcel open? Are you
the glow inside?
I wiped the smoke off the walls
but I can’t stop the forest.
It blows through the door’s wooden slats as
we confer. Late night TV
glares, and murmurs
‘I’ll love you through this.’