Everything seemed a catastrophe then
but I had things to prove.

The place was for rent
and I’d accepted its raddled timbers

once the colour of living things,
but with its veins now sapped

of blood and paint. No electricity
or running water, just a shallow river

and old plastic bucket. I ate only raw
and sat on the step watching the sun

rise and set. Each time a car slowed
on the distant road, my heart would rise

into my mouth and beat so loud
I couldn’t hear. Whenever I tried

hitchhiking to town I froze,
walking the whole way. When I think

of that time I burn for shame
at what I believed living meant.

Those nights, though,
looking up at the dark blue

dome of heaven until the moon rose,
I’d catch its light in my hands.