Monday, November 28
NOVEMBER Frost-whiskered lawn, pink creep of dawn pinching tree-bones: ransom note I open alone on the landing, a lifted-harness cling, humic fissure, dread, that this scribble of espresso will not allay. In my last dream, I saved my children. Woke. Wept hard, arms strapped, crossing guard, to chest. I was mother, then, not citizen. Why would I fall to sleep again? (Lisa Russ Spaar)