The night is yellow and sour
when I spit it back up;
I carry it back with me,
thinking I’ve found something
worth sharing–
this pool of evening
held in my palm
like a limp bird
procured from the front lawn.
I don’t know that it’s dead.
I hold it up to you;
your nose pleats–
throw that filthy thing outside,
you say,
and I try releasing it to the sky.
I watch it drip down my fingers
into the drain,
the thud of a body
hitting the ground.

—Published 26th of August 2024

About Kate Porch