Don’t freak out– it’s just fog–
soft as breath on your neck–

it is us, trying to salvage
this mess. A flower wilting

in morning, a scream, no rain,
a meadow in Maine where

we buried our secrets.
We don’t know shit about right

or wrong. About how deep
the wound goes. Only that the fog

is us: our spit, our blood, our love.
We fog up the windows, the mirrors,

the sky. We’re making Maine our own.

(originally published in Pandemonium Journal, Summer 2024)