I want to wake up before falling asleep and step into the lonely shower. The setting sun rises, reflecting off water swirling up from the drain. My careful hands wipe soap from my body and rub it onto the bar. I massage my hair, and water runs into the spout at the top of the tiles. Drops climb my legs as the drain quits spurting. I reach down to spin the faucet, and I am dirty once more. Old clothes jump as I fling out my hand. I am on the phone speaking nonsense to my mother. Droplets condense on my shirt and rise into my eyes.
I dial the numbers before I hang up. Downstairs, I sit next to my husband. Now calm again, we stare at the carpet. Then we cry backwards, and we both sob and cling. We stand an hour earlier and walk to our car, locking unlocking the door behind us. We drive in reverse without looking backwards.

We stand in a room with cruddy white couches, clutching each other after hearing bad news. Ronnie’s mother sags near a wall with a fist on her forehead. Our shirts dry out as we cry more and more. A doctor speaks to us, and we pace the room waiting for him to come. We spit coffee into cups which I place in a machine. Arms locked together, we travel to the desk. The receptionist phones the doctor, and we exit enter the building.

We are hopeful now as we tread to our car. Looking back on this, we will feel so relieved. My clothes repel dust, and I pray.

A nurse wheels you into the operating room. A white sheet is peeled back, and the scene picks up speed. Gloved fingers press your neck, and your heart starts squeezing. Calm nurses become frantic as the electric line jumps. Doctors untie arteries that suck up your blood. Needles pull stitches from your head, neck and arm. Cuts open up to collect what came out. Nurses crumple your scalp, making it dirty by wiping it clean. People flash through the room and steal equipment from your body to jam onto shelves. Two men wheel in a bloody stretcher and place you on top. The ambulance alarms through the night.

The moon gazes down at backtracking goblins. I take candy from kids before shutting the door. They ring the bell and walk down the driveway. A princess screams, and your dad darts behind a cardboard grave. Ghostly clouds slip over trees.

You are lifted from the ambulance, and the cart is now clean. Under flashing lights, men place you at a tree. Ronnie is now in a crinkled red car, and Sandra rests with her face in the road. The men check your pulses before backing away.

You lie there and stare at the slick, oily mud. Teasing ants creep from roots to your neck. A deer pads nearby, and you wish it could care. Mist cools your skin and you close your eyes shut. Suddenly, the tree shakes hard. Leaves spring from your body and flutter up the branches. Sharp bark slides from your sealing skull. Broken roots release your neck, and you retreat through the air. The steering wheel withdraws from Ronnie’s chest. He is pushed into place. Sandra flies through the air in a torrent of glass. Her neck whips into the headrest as the car jolts backward and races down the road.

Ronnie accelerates. You stick your head out of the window and brace to spin the curves. Sandra turns the music down. Wheels breeze past a bottle that flips into her hand. She regurgitates into it and pops the lid on. Without any lights, you back into a cemetery. You think about putting on your seatbelt, but no one else has.

The moon is a sponge soaking up light. You open the gate to erase scuffs in the dirt. Your shoes uncrack leaves, and Sandra’s bangs blow into place. Tombstones lean in the shifting sand. Ronnie sits down near a crumbly grave, and crickets hop towards his jeans. Ashes form cigarettes that Sandra picks up. They smolder near her lips. You lie on your back and look at the sky. A gray bird sings near a squirrel placing acorns onto branches. The cemetery house illuminates sheets like phantoms ruffling on a line.

It is lighter as you begin to drive home, the sun going down coming up. I stand on the porch with an empty bag and a bowl. Ronnie drops you off, and Sandra greets you goodbye. You place a fist of candy into the bucket, before the pile jumps into the bag. I seal it with my scissors. Dad takes a hanged man down from the roof. I smile as you back through the front door.