The full moon vibrates

keeps me awake, I never slept,

even as a child, I would wait it out

long looped hours, performing for nobody,

the act of drifting. Is this how you do it?
Medicated and slipping, I dream of rooms,

under rooms, secret basements, ornate spiral

creeping, termite-hollow staircases, crawlspaces

filled with rusty vessels and spiders falling

onto my hair like rice at a wedding—my special

day is a night where every door is swollen shut.
The hall here is elastic, in the dark it is yielding

and precarious. Always, my mother was just resting

her eyes and she still is. It has been a year—or more

and I think I can hear the waves in the thrum of coal

trains, below the aching moan of a ships horn.
The bedroom windows are wet, opaque

with condensation. I draw a lopsided heart

in the cloudy damp, a dripping tear snakes a trail

down towards the sill. Somewhere in the new light

of winter sun, a thousand pigeons rise and fly,

soft fluttering slap of wings aloft the growl of traffic.