fog they say can dissipate
like rain and humidity back to the clouds
it does not linger
– unlike night sweats that soak the bed linens
drenching you cold or hot
depending on the season
it’s the sporadic discomfort of momentary confusion i hate
when i wake to my body sweat-soaked
in full on visceral self questioning
of how this outside the shower wetness
is a wet all over wet,
that needing a towel wet
that checking for pee wet
’cause it can’t be sweat wet
but it is
even the palms of my hands are wet, closed tight and almost clammy wet
they tighten – my hands – when i sleep laying down but only at night
perhaps due to the dream voyages
i wake hands always clutched around some invisible treasure so tight i have to pry my fingers open
i look expectantly eyes straining to see what i am holding
if i check before i am fully in waking consciousness, i might be able to see what it is before the day hides it
because i still feel things in my hands
just before
and there’s a faint image visible
just before there isn’t
what is in my hands?
and that is when i discover i am holding my breath too as if i were deep diving without gear and need to inhale because there is no air in my lungs
when dad died, a year to the date, i passed out on my couch from the held in grief and when i awoke four hours later, i gasped for air as if i had been coming out of something or someplace where air was not there, as if raising from the dead
it’s the same feeling
and the fog rises grey and grainy enveloping the room
hovering
till i force myself to remember the day of the week, the time of day,
and what i need to do next
leave me
i need water
