By: Sophia Goodfriend
At the time of night
when fog rolls off the lake
and thickens at the window,
heavy with dandelions turned to seed,
I revisit my grave.
A series of impressions
assembling over the landscape
of my bare ceiling.
This is the past imposing itself.
A young girl discreetly emptying herself
into plastic water-bottles.
A mother asking her daughter,
withered in the back seat,
if she intends to die.
Interfering flesh flushed down toilets
or spit up into bushes on the side of the road.
At the time of night when
the moon heaves like a
searchlight, a hand extends
from the grave as if awaiting payment.
An honorarium
to hunger.
I assemble my body
as a record of debts paid
and wait for the sun to rise.
Sophia Goodfriend is a writer and anthropologist in training from Seattle, WA. Her writing has appeared in Jewish Currents, High-Shelf Press, Litro Magazine, and elsewhere.