lauren m. davis
With your boots at my bedside,
a western window open,
I wondered where you went,
barefoot, in a place like this.
Then my eyes absorbed your face
forming in the dark air,
your hand pulling me out of bed by my sleeve
to show me the ring around the moon.
Sitting on the front porch I said:
I know it is a long way to home.
It was a long way to where you could trust
that you would never drive drunk,
and paralyze someone
from the neck down, again.
Missing another night
I found you
flaying the skins of your memories,
vomiting into the kitchen sink.
When I reached to release the faucet
you cupped the running water
like you were lifting a baby bird
and said you dreamt
that the snow came through
the western window, collected and formed
the shape of my body on the bedroom floor.
Lauren M. Davis graduated from the University of Southern Maine with a Masters of Fine Art in poetry. Work from her collection Women Bones has appeared in several literary journals. She now teaches writing and art appreciation at the University of Saint Francis and Indiana Institute of Technology, and is the founder, writer and, editor for Words in the Garden, a content writing agency.