LOIS LOWRY REPLIED TO MY EMAIL
________________________________
So, it all became too, too much. Again. Still.
I took to the bed for a nap reprieve.
The sleep that eludes me
when the sky is dark
brought its
posse and set in for the duration:
four hours
F O U R H O U R S
trapped in seemingly endless night terrors (afternoon terrors?)
and
sleep paralysis
and
the damp chill of night sweats (afternoon sweats?)
and
monsters in tailored suits
and
life savers never thrown
and
lies reluctantly revealed
but
never punished
and
warmth withdrawn
and
smashed diamonds of counterfeit plastic
and
hopes dismissed
as casually as mismatched socks
and
words muffled and choked
and
feathers plucked and falling
instead of floating
and
backs turned
and
fruitless attempts to wake
or
move
or
escape
or
be heard
or
fly like Icarus
without the unfortunate aquatic ending.
A reprieve
from
the reprieve–
perhaps it’s just a stay,
but beggars really, really shouldn’t be picky–
was finally, befuddlingly
granted.
Fog lifted, sweat dried, fists unclenched, breaths deepened,
and,
as always,
email notifications dinged.
And there, humbly mixed in with
the spam
and
the fucked-up dropboxes
and
the bureaucrats
and
the latest alarms
on
the fascist of the day,
was Lois,
who heard me,
and for the evening, at least,
enough wax still clings to the wings.
Dicing on the Cake 