Who am I working against? This big bedsheet
curls beneath my fingers and blossoms like the nodes of summer lightning
rattling the front window door pane.
Who am I trying to prove?
Prick and stitch, prick and stitch, any minute
her cold grey eyes will open again and smell
wet roses reaching out
I keep my teeth between my fingers, tuck in my stays,
for a hard night’s rest, and watch
the little dew-dripping patterns of fern on cotton.