Some nights—too often now—I wake

Shouting, flailing from worry

Of someone lurking behind a fence—

Someone who claims to be no one

Who, when I wake to darkness again,

Is correct, if not mistaken—

I cannot find solace in sleep.

On the margins of the night, she sits

And knits in a rocking chair singing,

Weaving stories into the air. She’s not

Singing for me. Yet, I cannot speak

In dreams anymore. Night bruises

The day until my skin is broken

And blood spills as if in sacrifice.

(December 31, 2017)