RecoveryKelli Russell AgodonShadows disguise guests bringing balloons and flowers. Ghosts periodically dropping by to wish me well, rearrange the bouquets, adjust the tint on the television. Strangers paid to help, dress like angels without wings, offer juice, move the crowd in and out like weather. Tonight, the moonlight tries to steal darkness from the hollow of my chest, slips through the sheets and moves across the room. Morning, ready to lure night away from corners, from the hole against my ribs, ties knots in healing. I try to undo death and night and dying— when black mares run from the edges and circle, I send them across the valley over hills of days and prairies left undiscovered. A mile perhaps, a hundred acres of plains to ride and be forgotten. The sun knows I am not well, spends the morning taking inventory of my room. What remains on the nightstand— a lump of bagel, a half-sipped ginger ale, a crossword puzzle empty of even the easiest words.
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Kelli Russell Agodon