Mother always said I should tiptoe
in. So I'd hold my breath and try my hardest to avoid the woodcreak
near the closet, but occasionally I'd stumble. The bedroom would wake
cranky and grumble all night, keeping me
up. Other times, it would wait to hear me snore, then whisper nightmares
until I lay shivering after tossing blanket after blanket to the floor.
Sometimes I'd even kick out a cry, but wake and find the bedroom silently
feigning. Now that I've gone, the room seems a constant dream. Mother
says she'll sell the house because it's pointless to pay for a place
whose only job is sleeping.
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Rio:
A Journal of the Arts