The shutters cut up the sky.
Sifting the moon’s light slow through the floor.
Like moths through a screen.
Caught in my bed, I turn.
Remembering heat, hearing my father
Cough in his sleep and the vain birds
Mocking the dark.
Remembering close your arms, and how I said
I must go let me go.
How I blinked the light away, and ran
Before even the gray sky covered the roofs,
Gone with the bitter touch of you caught
In my hair like some old perfume,
Thinking, I will go home,
Thinking, I will be safe,
Feeling the miles erase what I thought was pain.
I stare at the ceiling’s dark,
At the moon coming slow through the screen,
Hearing my father cough and
The mockingbirds’ scheming song
Not even my childhood room is
As warm or as safe
As the hollow moon of your arms.