Redundant Feeling of Guilt
Dripping over itself, dripping over
itself. Slumped and slowed
his body drips over itself
like the moon melting into small drops of glue.
His pores fill and over-
fill with hours of thinking
and rethinking each decision he’s made,
each family dinner he can recall, even his laugh,
regrettable laugh. All of it stuffed
into a thick leather pouch
stapled to his back. He lugs it
everywhere. The wind reminds him
of a rude comment made years ago
to a friend. His eyelids click
and taunt him when he blinks
awake at night. Had he forgotten
to say goodbye before hanging up the phone
or thank you when pretending
to appreciate a gift, to say I’m sorry
for anything, to anyone?
What else has he forgotten?
Scenes replay in his brain, cloudier
each time, denser. A milky thickness
covers what he remembers
until what he remembers
is splotched behind paste-smeared glass,
a variation, remade version played slow
motion in his brain. He drops his head back,
onto a pillow, hands folded
across chest, each night
waiting for the moon to drip
and smother him to sleep.