published in Did I Mention There's Gambling and Body Parts? and New Ohio Review

 

I am the one who stands in cemeteries at midnight, yells at passing buses, scares crows out of trees. I am sweeping into your life as tornado, bankruptcy, bad news from the doctor; call me luck, karma, destiny, a curse, a test, a sign from God, result, payback, a closed door, a normal downswing, how things go sometimes, or the universe in retrograde. You deny my existence, looking out the window and wishing winter would end, the rain would stop, or the neighbors would move. I am whispering to your spouse, children, co-workers, friends, and I am leaning into you at the supermarket. I am sucking up all I know about you and holding it in. I am not good at keeping secrets.

 

I am trying, though, I am holding your doom in and it is killing me. You are killing me. You think sleeping badly is the worst repercussion. You think your ways only affect your weight, your mood, your ability to see in the dark, and you keep denying that letting anything out will help. I tap on your floor when you are in the basement. I dent your decorative molds. I eye everything you have with lust and greed. You can pretend I don’t exist but your past is starting to flood every path you make. Look. Spilled secrets are already covering your feet.