Friday, April 17, 2015


Something pulls at my sleeve--
 in the middle of the night--
 like a tide-- pulling me to shore--
 I rise out of bed and hug--
my mother's absence--
I place a record on her old victrola--
and watch my face spinning around--
 I am a happy child again--
on a merry go round--
The old needle catches--
a strand of her hair she left there--
dragging it around and around--
pretending to be a wounded bird--
 trying to rebuild a nest.

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