KYLE SLEDGE

Still steeped in sleep, I slowly pull back the shower curtain.
There’re no suds for cleansing, so I’ll stick with sweat instead.
Heat harnesses everything in the room,

masking the mirror with fog.

A red delicious rests on the soap rack from previous rushed efforts.
The skin’s been broken with bites covering its circumference.
A dark glaze forms over the worn flesh,

fading the light underneath.

Fruit flies float in a sporadic pattern, not knowing which way to go.
I try to give them guidance toward the goal at hand: sustenance.
Instead, their tiny little wings flitter away,

searching for succor elsewhere.

A sun to them I was
For only a moment
They lived as satellites.