The last thing you
expected was that
it would happen
again. The sad-
sweet notes sliding
in circles slowly
down around
you. God's composition
playing with your
neurons, playing
with your ideas
of time and space
until you simply
shrug and then
clam up. But
something in
you still wants
to be alive.
Something in you
playing the same
song over and
over knows there
isn't much time.
Simply departing
Earth's gravity won't

be enough. Your
old clothes are
stuffed into a
bag that can be
left on the ship.
Your new shoes
will get you through
the forest overgrowing
what was once
your bed. So
you open a large
blue umbrella.
You use magnets
to outline the
distance left
between here and
the end of
the song. Then
you hum a few
more bars and open
the door, step
out into the rain,
and feel the music
telling you what
you are before
I call the cops.

About the Poet

Laura Merleau has two cats who love nothing more than traveling with her across country to visit her family living everywhere from Seattle to Texas to New York. Her poems have recently appeared or will soon appear in Ragazine, The Los Angeles Review, and Qarrtsiluni.