There are skunks in there every night burrowing into the yawning parts of my wife’s dream-filled mind. Night by night, their numbers increase— as black as her stare, as pure as her smile. Backs that bear the white-tipped senses of God. They float through as an endless dark stream that glistens with my motives, and confirms my drunken pleasures— beaming out the secrets of my every move, my grief, my thorns.
The truth is a cage. My mind is my dungeon.
She says the skunks are the alcohol. I say they’re the dogs. She says maybe they’re everything. And she was gone before I could move.