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,
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
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.
