Aurea Mediocritas

He pulls the knife out of my corpse, rinses

off blood, skin, bone, shock—they clog

the sink's strainer. I can't empty it. Anger

erupts, Vesuvius; my translucent form

inflates. I still hover in the same place.

Why can't I move? I can see but can't

close my eyes: I don't have any. He turns

toward me. “No!” I shout without a mouth.

He hurries through me. For an instant,

I swallow him. He peeks at the street,

grabs my wrists, drags my body to the door.

“Stop! It's mine.” He opens the door, glances

left, right, pulls my carcass into the corridor.

The door shuts. Grief wraps me in its mist,

my shroud, now a straitjacket. Someone

bangs on the door. “Who is it?” I scream

in my silent voice. “It's me,” I whisper.