All that is uncared for.
Left alone in the stillness
in that pure silence married
to the stillness of nature.
A door off its hinges,
shade and shadows in an empty room.
Leaks for light. Raw where
the tin roof rusted through.
The rustle of weeds in their
different kinds of air in the mornings,
year after year.
A pecan tree, and the house
made out of mud bricks. Accurate
and unexpected beauty, rattling
and singing. If not to the sun,
then to nothing and to no one.
–by Linda Gregg
This morning someone spoke my name.
Sometimes I have trouble waking
I fall back to sleep
deep into dreaming
the weight of the voice shook me up, teeming
with a power
I have never known
I opened my eyes to realize that
and so it goes
whenever I’m lost in a vortex that is the bed
a voice speaks inside my head
if I’m too heavy
it rolls me into the covers tightly
pushes the pillows over ever so slightly
& shoves the alarm right under my ear
just near enough to deafen
On occasion I’ll come face to face with a face
precariously perched on the wooden chair
from my dresser
eyes intent and steady
watching me breath, I guess
until I am startled into wakefulness
& scan the room
looking for the missing soul
that rippled my sleep
only to see once again
that I am alone
the sole person
in this home.
Spoiled sick by your curdled fingers
your memory lingers
like milk slipping off the back of my mind
like kids and swings in the summertime
Hold fast, your eyes are far away
Listen close, the sounds darkness makes
When the sun slurps sleep from my cheeks
your eyes and mine meet
like chocolate red ribbons beckon
pupils open wide to drink your presence
as day breaks knuckles on night’s secrets.