A friend once
told me that,
though water
can hold a body
like memory, feet
are not meant
to float alone.
The first time
I met God, I was
draped in a rough,
elephant-colored
bathrobe, worn soles
on my slippers.
I used to drink while
doing the dishes in
the summer so
I could forget
what it’s like
to have a body
or a sun
slowly peeking
around corners
of kitchen windows.
Burnt signal that another
day had left and I was
simply another drunk
looking for signs
in the bottom
of a Solo cup.
Because I’d let
the pungent aroma
waft the rafters
of the house
a day or two too long
(or a week),
a candle lay
burning next
to the stove,
a beacon
for those who eat
every meal out,
but always
bring it home.
I trudged
through plate
after plate,
knife after knife,
losing my grip
until I dropped a cup
into emptying sink,
shattered stupor
of my libations
and thoughts
exploding over stains
that won’t come out.
In a year or so
from this moment
my wife will leave me
for a man almost
three times my age.
In a year or so,
I will try to snuff out
whatever candles
I had placed
around the kitchen
with a twisted
telephone cord.
I went to pick up
the remnants
and sliced my hand
open sideways,
longways,
each piece asking
to be remembered
by touch one last time
like a whisper
too tired to care.
I zipped my hand up
with a napkin,
drifted toward the den,
stopping at a candle
that had burned
far too long
and would take a while
to catch fire again,
snuffing it out
to see the ways
a bush can burn
without losing itself.
Where Moses
removed his shoes.
The ghost unshed
itself into a spiral
calling forth
a prayer
I still cannot say.
But my feet
are far too dirty.
Like the places
I have been.
Like the same slippers
tucked beneath my bed
that make me imagine
I will still be
cold tomorrow.

Featured Photo by Helen Doremus.