Erika Meitner

Come Home Late, Rise up Sleepless, or Just Act Troubled

My spatial relations are disorienting
though my judgement is sound. I want to say
Listen to the hushed snow falling
over the factories, pumping out winter
one flame at a time. I say, “Pull over here.
You’re drunk—let me out of the car.”

I walk six blocks in the dark along a boulevard.
The wind is loud but it isn’t cold.
My feet are swimming in my shoes.
I wear them for looks alone.

I am a cipher in the night
lit with clouds, a dart lodged
in the wall of the Paradise
Cocktail Lounge, near the door.
I am filled with .discount liquor
in small quantities. So light.
Between the sheets. The covers. A cover-up
of average proportions. Love stories and streetlamps.
Bottles breaking on sidewalks past bar time.
Garbage men yelling into the dark.