9:45 PM

twilight arrives 

bleeding on your bathroom tile.

you brush your teeth,

wipe your face.

the towel is already damp.

 

you pack for school,

preparing to trace through paths

you have walked a thousand wednesdays.

through the window,

the death of your fifteenth summer glows in the horizon.

 

10:00 PM

the kettle is screaming.

 

10:30 PM 

your mother finishes her tea

your father has gone to sleep.

 

12:30 AM

the air is still.

night leaks through the curtains

and you stare at shadows 

shifting among swirls on the ceiling.

your mother tossed and turned for nearly two hours

but the sheets have finally stopped murmuring.

 

you inhale

your ears begin to ring

you hear a cry:

the kettle is wailing.

you exhale 

and the shadows dance again in silence.

 

1:13 AM

you pad across the bedroom carpet 

you wash your hands.

the water is cold

but you don’t know why.

 

across one of your palms there are two lines

when you close your hand they fold inwards,

collapse on themselves

your grandmother once told you that meant luck.

 

on the other hand only one line cuts across your palm 

your grandmother once told you that meant death.

 

the tap shuts off

and little drops of liquid moonlight 

glisten inside the sink.

unbidden, you think of how the sink is a vortex.

always draining 

always swallowing 

always hungry.

 

still, it always ends up empty.

 

1:54 AM

your eyes have been closed for 23 minutes.

you have been awake for 17 hours.

 

2:21 AM 

you dream of going down the hallway

pushing open the door to your mother’s room

(your father and her sleep separately

so she is alone too.) 

 

you dream of laying under the covers 

hovering next to her warmth

you dream of asking

ma, are you sure i am a person

and not a vortex? 

no matter how much goes in me 

i am always hungry.

i always end up empty.

 

you dream of whispering

what about a nesting doll, ma?

see here: there’s my pain

then open me up and neatly inside is you, ma.

my mother and her pain.

crack her open 

and then there’s her mother and her pain,

painted over with flowers. 

crack her open, 

and then

 

3:38 AM

the water in the sink has dried.

it is dull again.

 

7:00 AM

you wake up

the bed is cold

but you are sweating.

 

7:15 AM

you go downstairs

your father is still sleeping

your mother is in the kitchen.

you watch as she rushes to the stove 

running to silence the kettle 

before it starts to scream.