Circling: Under the Yellow Sun

       I.

       For years

       under the black shroud of night,

       I have been alone

       with my own voice

       echoing through the chambers

       of my brain.

       Night after night

       I cling to wakefulness,

       do all that I can

       to avoid the hulking monsters

       of my dreams.

       II.

       For years

       in the warm yellow light of day,

       my eyes closed,

       I’ve been dozing,

       comforted by the blanket

       of familiar noises:

       my husband cooking

       and folding clothes,

       my daughters

       circling and circling around me

       in hopeful spirals.

       III.

       Sometimes I feel

       two girls’ eyes  

       peering into the place where I reside

       and the black birds of their sadness

       settle heavily

       as one great flock

       in my ribs.

       I choke on the grief.

    
       And so I fight 

       to share in their daylight,

       pin my lids open

       until I can see,  finally,

       the warm yellow sun

       spilling over

       their warm yellow hair,

       and for a while,

       the flock of birds

       lifts off my chest

       releasing me

       from its weight.

       IV.

       When they’re grown,

       I hope they don’t wander in a daze
       for too long,

       feeling alone and abandoned.

       I hope they know

       the electricity of the yellow sun,

       the safety and softness of night,
       and so I fight my way back

       through the tunnel

       of backward nights and days,

       to join them,

       to circle and circle in dizzy spirals,

       loving them so much

       under the yellow sun.