When I Met Gandhi On Your Kitchen Floor

by Heather Stai

I cracked my ribs when I fell at your house.
I didn’t feel it at the time.
I was just happy to be there, lying on your kitchen floor.
Just passing through but
I wanted to stay.

The blood vessels in my hand snapped open,
swelling up a fresh wound.
I’ve been watching the brown-blue spread
like an infection.
Thank you.

My body attacks itself.
Years of blank burning swims up to the shoreline and shows me that Ultraviolence.
The body puts the soul inside the frame.
How poorly my heart has aged; I’ve spent too much time
close to the sun.

I am here to breathe and let my body blemish.
The desire to desire you has long passed.
The object of you
proved faulty and worse for the wear.

Sometimes, dogs will wait years for their dead owners to come home.
Deep breath. One, two, on my knees, deep breath out.
I’m standing up now, off that floor.

No, that was the finale.
We have to leave now if we want to beat traffic.
There aren’t going to be any more fireworks.
Look, see? There’s not even smoke in the sky anymore.