She got up too fast, her head a nimbus cloud,
gray and full. She lay back down, swallowing
hard, the night’s party odors still clinging
to her hair and clothes. What had she said?
What did she do? The fog rolled over her,
a chilly, threadbare quilt. Shivering, she tried
to pull it off to stand. The sun tried to peek
through her blinds, but she snapped them closed.
Moaning, she pushed her face back into the pillow.
That was the last time she’d party with March.
© 2011 Kim King
KSquaredPoetry 