by Annalise Mabe
Let me tell you about the time
I drove all night, blind, after your hang up,
after you said you couldn’t live
Let me tell you about:
the dark stretch of trees on U.S. nineteen,
and the black trash bag of leaves that was a turned over horse,
that made my heart quick; made me say
God Bless You to every passing ambulance,
or the Ghost Deer and the Glaucoma Dog
that I could have sworn I saw run in front of my car,
or about love. You don’t know what it means.
I know, but I didn’t mean it.
Let me tell you that I never want
to be alone
in a body
in a bed
in the night
I need, I need,
you to tell me: It’s okay, It’s okay. I’m here.
You can sleep because I’m here.
About Annalise Mabe
Annalise Mabe is completing an MFA at the University of South Florida, where she writes poetry and nonfiction. Her work has been featured in The Offing, Proximity Magazine, and elsewhere. She reads poetry for Sweet: A Literary Confection and is a poetry editor at Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art. She lives in Tampa, Florida, where she teaches composition and creative writing at USF.