Sometime after 6am, I wake and go back to sleep. We are somewhere, you and I, a place both familiar and strange, in that dream way. You go inside a hospital, a tower along a lightless lane, as if to ask for directions. In a twist I’m in that old scene: something looming, a substance on my hands I can’t quite see. I can’t go back and can’t go on. My pockets are filled with shards of glass and broken teeth. Then you send me a message, between these two places, crossing who knows how many borders to reach me. Text behind my eyes. It’s done is all it says, and somehow I know you’re gone. I can’t wake again for what feels like ages. When I finally do and rise, the room is damp and cold. A fly knocks against the screen.
William R. Soldan lives in Youngstown, Ohio, with his wife and two children. His poetry has appeared in publications such as Jelly Bucket, Jump: International Journal of Modern Poetry, Neologism Poetry Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Ohio’s Best Emerging Poets: An Anthology, and others.