By sunrise, there’s a whole plotline written in my breath. A tinge of schnapps, of tobacco. An entire narrative sleeping in the nude beside me, convenient amnesia cloaking portions of the backstory. I’m neither less nor more innocent than anyone else, scribbling my name with a finger on a mirror, shower steam condensation becoming a willing backdrop for my signature. Truth is, we’ve all fallen for it. Nights muddled in moonshine and the silent unfastening of buttons. Another cautionary tale. A twisted path where I stumble, am misled by curvature. By checkout time, I evacuate the room to stop my conscience from reeling. Burn the clothing to kill the rot. Something about the vagueness in my voice disquiets me. Anxiety has a house and a fence and a loaded shotgun on the front porch. A Molotov cocktail. A lit match.

Adrian S. Potter writes poetry and prose in Minnesota. His first poetry collection, Everything Wrong Feels Right, is forthcoming through Portage Press. Some publication credits include North American Review, Roads & Bridges, Jet Fuel Review, and Kansas City Voices. Visit him online at http://adrianspotter.com/.