Every damn night
you shut off the lights
and sleep the rest of worms.
And oh, that is just the beginning of your dry patches.
We’ve lost interest in
your night kneading,
your cradle cap full of sweat
and dirty limericks twice forgotten.
We’ve stopped applauding your night terrors
about pulling the loose thread
on the living room carpet
as if it were a ladder
that could bring you closer to the moon.
You pull and pull
until it ravels itself into a parachute
until there is nothing left but ruffles and sea foam.
And we wait for shadows to grey
under the floppy tongue of morning light.
We huddle around the imbecilic wall clock in the bathroom,
watching it shed slivers of seconds with every tock.
The big hand,
the little hand,
chasing after each other
like squirrels desperate for a shag.
Which one carries the nut, Magda?Which one is keen to chase?
I wrote this new poem in response to the weekend mini challenge over at Real Toads. This poem is part of my Black Birthday Cake chapbook - a series of poems written to Magda ( a woman) from the ghosts living in her apartment.