David Cazden

As a Child, I Hold a Mercury Thermometer under My Tongue

Then it drops, glass breaking,
quicksilver scattering
like mirrored ball bearings.
Trying to hold it,
it slips through my hands
and I feel like Mom
trying to keep a thought
after age 50. I imagine
a substance like mercury
follows me wherever I go―shining
on staircases, pooling in plane aisles.
Returning home, I glimpse it
on gray tile floors,
slipping through keyholes
where thoughts often leave
a nursing home's doors.
The night Mom passes, I dream
she's rummaging in the house,
rearranging sheets, blankets,
pinning up laundry
as my shirts and pants flutter
in the shape of a body.
I wake up wishing
we are still at Coos Bay
off the Oregon coast
in August's isthmus of heat―
Sunlight hits waves,
cascading down rocks
into smooth surf
holding all our reflections,
glinting them back to the sky.

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David Cazden's second book is The Lost Animals (Sundress Publications, 2013). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Passages North, Nimrod, The Connecticut Review, Rattle, Crab Creek Review, The Louisville Review, Barely South Review, Fugue Journal, The McNeese Review, The New Republic and elsewhere. David was the poetry editor for the magazine, Miller's Pond, for five years. He lives in Danville, Kentucky.