In the wee hours
between midnight and dawn, my body practices leaving. Using sheets for sails and bedframe for a prow, my body rehearses its last goodbye. Stars and moon lose their sway, locked doors no longer contain me, and bedroom windows become as porous as air.
every quarter hour the cuckoo escapes
Deprivation
She won’t drive the car or sell it, as it belonged to her husband; what would he think? It’s covered with blankets, tucked in like a child on a cool night. She cowers in the house, a stray cat, hard- bitten and fearful of people. If you knock long enough, you’ll sense motion and the door will open up to a pale flower desper- ate for light.
dry creek bed
the pluck
of a single string