4 AM

—Christine Richardson

Last night I stubbed my toe.
I cursed the dark hallway,
the window without its moon.

There had been a dream, I know.
The texture still throbbed
like a splinter under the skin.

As a child I thought a creature
lurked beneath my bed.
If I rose, it would grab my ankles

pull me down and under.
My wailing silent as ice.
No one would know until morning

when they found my bed empty
my pillow a soft valley of snow.

One thought on “4 AM

  1. Your images are so often breathtaking. The window without a moon, yes, but oh, "The texture still throbbed/ like a splinter under the skin." Dream-texture! That itself is such a brilliant poetic condensation, Christine. And to flow so concisely into "like a splinter" captures a psychological state in terms of a feel, one all of us can remember. Brilliant, the poem of the month at Willow Glen.

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