Time and Tide
Outside her window, the canal’s slow waters scum green. Unfathomable, how it never stops. Every day a bad day— her stomach lurches, motion sick. You need to quiet your nerves, the doctor says and prescribes pills, exposure therapy. My entire life is exposure, she says and labors to believe it is the river that moves, that inches by and not her not her room that becomes passenger coach and she its rider and insists instead it is the city that stands still and she is the one pulling out of the station slowly at first then faster and faster until she’s reduced to ghost blur, to oily whorl—a finger-smear on glass.