Dislocation

Quiet soul,
quiet but burning
burning, burning —
do you feel this burning,
this sense of senselessness,
this lack of direction
of this person

who once wrote poetry,
who once dreamed of prizes,
of interviews,
of big literary dreams?
She shut her eyes
and jumped,
then crashed

into the swirling ocean,
that swirl and swill
of drink and desperation —
that need —
that causes us to grab outstretched
flesh and bone
without seeing the face

to which it belongs.
She is here (I am here)
in the night
(hear me)
trying to write lines
before he comes
stumbling in

a dulled elephant,
a numbed snake,
and says, “I thought I told you
to stop with that bullshit.”
As he always does. And she protests
weakly (I am here)
but then (hear me), a cry

from the other room —
a mommy! mommy! mommy! —
and he, hearing this,