In the west

a sallow full moon, the color of distressed

metal, has stalled as though

I ever could be righted by

its tidal pull

while the rising sun

refuses to burn

away the tule fog

as my love and I drive the highway north.

No matter

how various we’ve found

this small city, this morning

we take the only route possible

to the heart, to

the one way I can be

rid of something

monstrous, and mine

a single thread tied

to him my home

who will wait

as I am led back

to my body, altered.