Aquainted

(Winner of the "Take Back the Night" Festival 2010)


Night is in the far corner of her bedroom,
arms over bony knees, tucked behind
the moonlit curtains, waiting
for the door handle to stop
rattling the glow-in-the-dark
planets hanging from her ceiling.

She is asphyxiated by the eternity
between the dips of the horizons,
hoping to be extinguished
into silent sunrise so she can
pretend she doesn’t exist,
so she can go back to bed
and pretend it isn’t so warm.

Night has lost her nerve
to her own reflection. She is afraid
of the black in her eyes and the stars
on her skin, all the constellation
blue prints. She smothers them in
flannel pajamas and prays the pounding
in her head will disappear behind
the bed skirt and stay with all
the lost socks and wool sweaters.

She hides inside her cornflower
blanket and imagines she
is the sun inside a jar, flickering
through flutters of wings,
pushing against the lid,
wishing someone had
remembered air holes.