The Stranger
the dogs pace in their cages
and bark a frantic warning
at any approaching footstep
or knock at the door.
but if they freeze to attention
as if afraid to be detected,
then I heed their judgment-
the stranger is near.
the streetlights in my eyes
flicker off where he passes.
and the rivers in my veins
hush their babbling.
my lungs fill like balloons,
for the air forgets to move.
and the rain in my head
turns to silent, dry ashes.
if I've ever met the stranger,
I can't recall his visits.
only how the world returns
the moment he departs.
the dogs shirk their duty,
and shrink into the corner
of my ribcage, exposing
a new impression where he tread.
Copyright © Meadow Kurova | Year Posted 2017
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