Night sounds skid across the house like audible shadows;
3 AM, the clock ticks in the kitchen.
The refrigerator stutters; ice cubes drop into the freezer’s gut.
A drowsy mother stirs.

3 AM, the clock ticks in the kitchen.
Somehow this sound is translated into dream.
A drowsy mother stirs.
The rhythm of the house is hidden but familiar.

Somehow this sound is translated into dream.
A sleeping child dimly recalls the echo of his mother’s heart.
the rhythm of the house is hidden but familiar.
Below, the furnace sings its hot and windy song.

A sleeping child dimly recalls the echo of his mother’s heart.
Water gurgles warm as blood through bathroom pipes.
Below, the furnace sings its hot and windy song.
While dreamers settle into shallow breathing,

Water gurgles warm as blood through bathroom pipes.
The refrigerator stutters, ice cubes drop into the freezer’s gut.
While dreamers settle into shallow breathing,
Night sounds skid across the house like audible shadows.



Alessandra Speaks the Word, Yes

“The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said.”
          -Philip Larkin

In the moment she tries to configure
her lips and tongue into the word,
a word she has long been growing in
her throat like the first light of dawn,
the forsythia buds begin to unwind
themselves, pear-green, thinly veined,
coated in a wet only an aged cheek could feel.