I’m ashamed of how afraid I am.
I am gluttonous in my fortunes.
But what is love and the home
one grouts about its borders
if not a kind of doomsday bunker?
Are we not always shopping
for a place to die?
I’ve been struggling to breathe,
so I’ve deleted all my porn
and the poems I wrote in anger.
I have not found God.
I’ve abandoned my diet.
Outside there are crickets, a spatter
of cardinals, the neighborhood
labs in all their drooling wisdom.
Inside we have ridden the pendulum
of bickering and forgiveness and we’ve
come out twisted like creeping vines,
hypnotized, bound by the understory.
We have been hunching over jigsaws
and sunning ourselves in Doctor Who.
And like the Tardis, this apartment
is bigger on the inside. Rooms
are the dreams of rooms.
This poem was originally published in the Fall 2021 issue of Sequestrum.