The sinkhole grows quietly under
the bed. The baby cries weakly from fatigue,
and her cry blooms radiant into shadow
on the bedroom wall. How we watch each other
throughout the night over the dormant city. The city &
the baby rise and fall as they sleep, breathing in pockets
of air. I have seen how the kitchen knife’s edge
reflects the rooms spinning into each other, my body
in the center. How the grocery bag on the counter
trembles with the thought of holding a body’s breath.
The sinkhole craters into the chair of my body, knocking
legs into seat & back. Dear sinkhole, I say, save your glowing
edge, the thriving of your blossoming dark.
The electric swing lets out a single note
of song in the living room. It turns & turns in the bed.