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)