I remember cold water placed by all the exits.
Every morning, the sink becomes a white bowl
Of water I have blessed. I am not ordained.
I have days and days of shit caking my boots.
My gums bleed a carelessness as I brush them.
Eventually, soon, they’ll bleed out completely.
You are nothing, says the mirror full of steam.
I wipe at it, fruitlessly, and for once it’s okay
to be blurry, to leave the old razor and hand soap
alone, to go out where horses are congregating
where sky is really the one to make up walls
as it always does, has, and for once it’s okay.
Eric Greenwell grew up on the Mississippi River. Recipient of Writing in the Wild and Centrum Writers’ Conference fellowships, he is the 2016 PEN/Margery Davis Boyden Wilderness Writing Resident. His work has appeared in Willow Springs, Lake Effect, Sugar Mule, and is forthcoming in Boston Review.