2 minute read
Some Nights
Some Nights Douglas Long • Poetry
—1— I wake up to rustling sheets and look over at you, slumped over the side of the bed in a cold sweat, staring off into nothing with pressed temples and stifled breaths.
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“Damn it,” you mutter.
“What’s wrong?” I want to ask— but I don’t.
I roll over and close my eyes as you get up and walk to the door and glance back, hoping you didn’t wake me up.
But you did. You always do.
A few moments later, I hear the soft hum of the microwave. A sliver of light shines from outside and I can see you through the crack in the door staring at your hands with tired eyes.
You come back a minute later, groaning as you sit down and bury your face in your hands.
I sit up and slowly inch closer, then drape myself around you. I hear you catch your breath as I pull you close and lean in to kiss your shoulder.
These Fish Bite • 41
—2— I shoot up, wide-eyed as the chill of the air conditioner brings me back. Leaning over the edge of the bed, I gaze into the darkness, hoping for an answer, and dig my knuckles into my temples.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
My legs feel heavy as I stop in front of the door and look back just to make sure I didn’t wake you up.
I know I did, and I feel terrible about it.
The hallway stretches further with every step as my thoughts wander back to the east— always back to the east, lost in a haze of smoke and sandstorms. The kitchen lights feel hotter and the microwave sounds louder than last time.
My hands won’t stop shaking. No matter how much I wash, No matter how much I scrub them raw, they’re still the same: still dirty—
—with their blood and mine.
I come back and sit down as it all comes flooding back again: mothers hurrying their kids back inside, a knife inches away from my chest, the top bunk where my buddy used to sleep.
• 42 Douglas Long
The knots in my chest quiver as you pull me back. Your breath against my shoulder, quiet and warm; your heartbeat against my back, slow and soft; your hands cradling mine, rubbing away stains that aren’t there with gentle thumbs.
These Fish Bite • 43
