Nighthawks
Nighthawks (do tell: What was dying twice like?) These days I ache on the wane, I feel a tall child crying, setting with sun, crying. I’m afraid there is not-else I can write about for you’ve left a bed in your shape behind in place of warmth and Now my hands must be pressed up against me, one underneath my thigh, the other my chest I’m still alive — as I watch the night. Do you remember how mother’s forehead would forever be kneaded with fine fragments as she dreamt? She never felt, mother never felt it, enough. But she was so big and real enough that I would slip my little hands to her, palms painful rough as they travelled across us, resting flush against her belly. But these new hands, weaker, travel against old sweater cotton, taking with my sheets, to hold me before the scream, because I wouldn’t want to scream - whose name would I scream? — and yet my throat ...