And If She Dies Before I Wake
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my Soul to keep,
and if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my Soul to take.
Mother changed the last words
of my nightly prayer in attempt
to stave me from the futility of
how we all end—in an attempt
to save me from her. I can’t
remember what snug-as-a-bug,
happily-ever-after ending she
Now I Layed Me every night
of my childhood. I can’t
remember, because I was raised
by a night mother who lived Down
to Sleep. I was raised by a
nightmare who gassed herself
in our locked car garage
door Down to Sleep—overdosed
Down to Sleep-walk her days
away—overdosed Down to
Sleep and sleep and sleep in
hopes she’d stop her breathing.
I was raised by a ghost mother
who prayed she would die before
she woke, but she always woke,
and I grew up in the wake of
what was left of my mother.
I don’t remember what ending
she made up for me—all I can
remember is how much I prayed
she would wake up and be my
mother again—all life and breath
and soul of her. I wonder now, if
my prayer went with that last imagined
line I can’t remember anymore.
My Cat Always Hears My Writer’s Block
the way God knows prayer.
She mews, and nudges,
and chews on the end of my
stubborn pen—this animal
who has never required
a single uttered word from
me. All she needs begins
with a simple sound
called meow. Then,
in the same unspoken
moment, I answer
soundless
with my palm of love. I pet,
and hold, and breathe into
her fur, and the purity
of her purr. She instantly
answers what I am
afraid of—whatever, whenever
I’m afraid.
With her, it’s as if my fear
was a simple question
quelled with her purr and
my caress that together
say Yes. Yes. Yes—as if she were
my cradled hands and I was
the book I finally write. She thumbs
my pages with silk and trill,
cover to cover, and the words
hum a halo from our being.
As for the fear, when she silently
reads me I forget for a moment—
I remember for a moment.