Sara Slaughter

Not exactly gray,
closer to green
come out of dirty water,

washed up
old story,
semi-glossed and sharply

toothed. A night heron
has taken the fish's center,
leaving the stomach

open to show
damp slate, sea blue
smelling of baby fish, half-acid,

this little pocket
comes with such color.
Imagine sleeping

surrounded here
by the slow rise
of summer's tide.

The mosquito abatement truck can be heard
like the dragging of a two-by-four, but they are
only spraying. It should be fall.  West Nile
should be done. On the ground, chestnuts
only the wheels of a semi can crack.  
Dogs will find them. I drink more
on the porch and think about the one girl
I've loved, how she told me obedience is
unbecoming. She used to be my best friend,
but now, my best friend tells me cats are out
to colonize our apartments. Tells me,
your cat will throw up on your pillow.  
Tell me, how much should a seven pound cat sleep
in one day? The cat breathes but doesn't join me
here, watching the slow flash of light in the truck's spray.
In my hometown, the abatement truck driver had a twin
who passed away from some kind of cancer after a long go,  
and the one left alive adopted his son. Sometimes I think more
about what the driver's shoes look like, sometimes I talk out loud
about how hard it would be to lose something that had split from you.