She
is grateful for the night,
the
black hole,
that
swallows up the glare of the day.
She
needs darkness deep as nightshade to sleep.
Heavy
drapes protect her
from
stray glints of wandering moonlight.
The
night upturns what is buried deep.
The
withered bouquet.
Her
mother who couldn't sleep
without
a lamp on.
Her
father stumbling out the door each night,
with
Jack Daniels on his breath,
punching
air.
She
can find her own way in the dark,
touches
walls, finds doors,
feels
the cold iron of her own bed.
Her
black cat shines at night.
He
rubs against her,
head
raised, tail up,
claws
sheathed.
She
gathers the dark around her like a down quilt,
and
closes her eyes.