OTHER DISTANCES

A perfect candidate for Miss Morbidity, I often wake at 4 a.m. to hear the hiss of life evaporating from the lake

of itself. The cat, a charcoal smudge on blue pillows, smothers me in fur. Blind and deeply in need of touch, he meets my terror

inch for inch. I never go downstairs to watch TV or have a snack. I lie still, trying not to think of stars or other distances, the track

of years and the level crossing, only my blood turning and tossing.