In a tank, a small cistern in the body,
was where the grief overtook me.
Perhaps angst. Because my gold coin didn’t feel real enough,
I just burned and wandered.
The guild, the employer, the king, the staff,
made gentle guidelines, nudged outright but retracted the gesture,
and even when silent treatments were administered,
they became light sentences.
Nothing was truly ham-handed; I was not having bad luck.
My pain was dull, my house was plentiful.
My dress was spun with care; I had been reminded that it was.
My fishbowl was husky and that’s what I told myself, no more
Indigo, no more indigent fantasies. I have not swam in jilted
dreams nor breached a belt of coldness so low.