The waiting game
begins with someone calling your name before you
wait to have your blood taken in a windowless room.
Wait for the stultifying thoughts of red and disease
to pass. Wait for the phone call, for relief to wash
over you. And while you are waiting I recommend you
dance like the memory of sweat easing down his
throat; roll open like the drum beat of your limbs
in sync; tear through your wildest nights, still lit in
hopeful neon; cry like the Christmas you lost your
last grandparent; and sing like the forgotten violin
slowly coming undone in your muscle memory.
If you do not allow yourself to sleep in peace
with your worries, you will find yourself awake
at the bottom of a very deep, very secret lake.