350/365: Fever Dream
I sat in the back of the station wagon
listening to a pop song
about deserts and horses.
The highway strung itself out in a bright, dry ribbon
from under the back of the car,
and I thought about how thirsty that horse must be,
how thirsty I was.
I had read a terrible story
about a little boy who let himself out of a moving car,
and his body only stopped
once most of his skin had been ground off.
I imagined that I loved him.
I imagined that I could dislodge the heavy door
and join my boy.
I imagined he and me and the thirsty horse,
and nobody's skin could hurt anymore,
because there wouldn't be any.
There was loss lodged deep
inside my cranium.
It was already a divot
worn into the well of the inside of my skull
when I was seven,
and earlier yet,
it was a spot I saved
during the fever dream of creation.
There are no names
for all the losses we gather.
It is the balance of love
in the human heart.