You know it is

You know it is bad
when you spit three times
on your red, fleshy feet
in the shower, to get the
taste of your own life
out of your mouth.

You know it is bad
when you think if you do
not find a word for this—

the this that makes
you raise your arms, lean
them against cool, wet tile
to steady yourself—

in time,
you will be a goner.
The question is:
how much time
do you have?

The time is not for you,
this time you mete out,
carefully.
Tick, tock, I love you,
bedtime.

You know it is bad
when you yell,
God, you are really
pushing your luck,
and—

just like that—

the house grows dimmer yet.
Even more still than it was
a moment ago—

which was already
far too dim,
far too still,
far too far from
being a home.

You know it’s bad
when you can’t imagine
knowing, just from
a smile, a glance—

ever again. Silly romantic.
You would give it all up for
a true home, somewhere safe.

You know it’s bad
when you can guess
who rolls their eyes,
makes measured notes
at “safe.”

“Cool,” you
say, instead of what
is true, what is not
“cool.”

Sign this, sign
that, sign for the
delivery that you
do not want.

You know it’s bad
when no matter what
you do or say—

cut out your tongue
and let it speak
from a platter,
let it wine and dine
as necessary,
it may have more luck
on its own—

it will never be enough.
For better or for worse
was a lie, what was wanted
is not this—

this you, this flawed soiled
humbled authentic wiser you
who loves like mad,
who has not yet found a way
to insert a heron into her poetry—

or even trees, sea glass, a fox.

You tried a jackrabbit, once,
but it was not appreciated.

You are for better and for worse
at the same time. More worse
than better, but it is difficult
to maintain the truth of this
without the inevitable backlash—

a pile of ashes, no phoenix yet,
though the crowd, how it gathers.
How restless it is. A few choose
their rocks, smooth stones.

You know it’s bad
when they wait for your demise,
your transformation,
never bothering to question
what remains, what has taken root
behind your bewildered eyes.

Soon only your head will
remain above ground, and
no doubt you will still be
smiling—

absurd habit. At least
the ground is cool and
perhaps you will bloom
in the hot sun, like an
exotic flower, before
the next wave of stones
bloodies you, roots you
deeper in silent, unyielding
circumstance.

You can hope, but there
is nothing in it. Shake the
limp skull left behind,
you will hear nothing.

What will you feel then?