Cam Hyer-Dawes
BRUISE
The window is left open
and lets the thick summer night spill
into the room
breaking the makeshift twilight
held there into fractals –
spreading it like shattered glass on a highway
taking in the glare of headlights.
I have been scorching my lands
harvesting fire
and turning bruised fruit –
inkishly purple
and rotted sweet –
to ash.
I am erasing the sound of your voice.
I can’t hear it without wanting to cry.
I wish I could forget your hands a finger at a time
like clockwork
as if grief could be measured
as an empty space
to be filled.
I’ve memorized the carousel of shame
by its varnished surface –
the horse shapes
are impaled
and they turn and go
nowhere. The music
is an incantation
of swamp water
static television.
I am emptying myself into drink.
I imagine sitting at the bottom of a motel pool
opening my eyes into the sting of chlorine
blurring my sight
the water swallows whole
an aquamarine brilliance:
paint on concrete walls.
Light dances underwater
you can watch it like you would watch a stag.
When I come up
I cup the water’s lukewarmth
and stare into the pond
I have made of my hands
seeing the skin that covers them.