Drowning in Puddles

My brain is

waiting for Sunday.

Trying to touch bottom,

unsure of

where bottom is.

Down into the deep,

the blood and the cold

sink further,

always hoping,

there will be sand.

It’s like that now.

I float without end,

lost in a birdbath

that barely contains an inch of water.

Drowning in puddles.

How absurd,

that I,

a grown woman,

capable of opening doors and

windows,

can not make sense out of loss

or cold.

I sip nettle tea,

shovel meat down my throat

and pray

to reach bottom.

But further I fall.

The helicopters come

spinning their blades at me,

shattering my silence.

My blue sky.

Still I fall.

As if I could change a thing.

The last robin bathed

for the night.
The ceramic base waits empty

full of water.

Tomorrow,

they will be back again, 

just like my blood.