The moment you begin to fall asleep,
gravity rearranges itself, tender,
reaching its arms to cradle your head
which becomes a fish bowl thick
with glass. The rest of you becomes a fish,
swimming fast in water that slowly thickens
and grows darker, your reflection following.
Tonight is like the time you missed the train
to Bridgeport and you waited.
An old man in an orange hat said prayers
under his breath. Tonight is like the time
you missed. Like time—dark and heavy.
The goldfish-you watches the reflection-you
and wishes it could stop.
It wishes it could move, but
the water is still and it needs
to watch because what’s happening next
won’t happen if it closes its eyes.
When you were eight you went and saw
a play with your mother. You wore a
green dress, and when the intermission came
you stepped on toes to get to the bathroom.
The bedroom is dark. Your legs are still,
and the story can’t end until you stop
telling it, but you’re afraid to be forgiven.