by Stephanie Ambroise
When the moon audaciously rips itself
from your view. When the self-
diminishing, the cutting, the inhales
out of existence end, you’ll still
beneath a cloudy winter sky.
You’ll attempt to make smoke rings
with your breath. Or your father’s
angry left eye
and fail at both. At the first shoulder stroke
of sunlight, you’ll drag your broken body
to a room with an atmosphere that sags
and air that caves in-
to where your lover once lay.
You’ll find you won’t fit. The
depression won’t let you in.
From the motel window, you’ll
wonder why absence always takes up
double the space.