All night she moved along the brim of sleep,
Like a stone in a wheat field, the ground was hard.
Moon, shadows, crows that withering sky.
Her bed wore the stain of darkness,
The light wormed back into her mother’s womb.
Small as a broken doll in a dress of innocence,
She dreamed how imperfect she was, and she was.
Against the bare, whitewashed walls, her room
Cramped in a poorhouse, she heard siblings crowd
In a starving for sleep; footsteps multiplying into
The dream chamber, bodies aching for a slumber.
The statued grain like pillars, her twelve slow steps
Towards a windowed figure, heavy as a ghost;
Six feet to a grave, a shovel for the dirt—
Her mother in black, poised in some old tragedy,
Read from the purgatory book; like a good parent,
She swallowed in the darkness. Embraced the
One who never did, flesh and some bone. It dogged
Her, sleepless and envious. The moon drips red.
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