I was going to drink last night,
a chilled bouquet slipping down my throat.
Then I recalled that I’m sober.
The imagined splendor disappeared
behind little doors that slammed
with little puffs of smoke,
until I was left, bare-limbed in child's pose,
in the empty room of my emotions.
Outside, a fog rolled in. I watched the hull
of a ferry boat cut silently through agate water.
I found I've always had a smile as large
as a feast.
Lauren Ebright is a writer living and forgetting to breathe in the Pacific Northwest. Her poetry has appeared in Permafrost and Anti-Heroin Chic, among others. Follow her procrastination on Twitter @lauren_ebright.