sprouts, suddenly, piranha teeth. The morning’s made
for sleeping. She angles her head onto mountainous white pillows;
they cradle her neck, the gritty seams splicing it;
her dirty black hair, fanning across fabric,
creates phosophorescent rainbows of filth I long to stroke.
I’m always with her on those bleached, dead mornings
when she sleeps: I hover, then, over the bed, a quick sliver of light that flickers,
shivers, glows, Arctic-ephemeral, shedding a warmth that steals
under her chin, steadies her trembling throat. “Breathe, Sweetie,”
I whisper; her eyes open and close faster. Faster. I never know
what her mind’s camera records. Never suspect what sharpening
memories claw her inner eyes. Her sickness, like a laser,
shapes and hones her. Her gaunt boldy tenses; she rolls over
on the mattress, clings to sweaty sheets,
her floe-luminous eyes fragmented with shards and ice.
About Terri Brown-Davidson
