Peace, be with me.

I watch the sunrise from my bed each morning.

Plumes of orange cream rising from the trees.

Rising like my dreams.

And poetry is singing at the front of my mind,

dancing on my tongue, eager to fly out and onto any scrap of any page.

The shadows of my words touch me a little deeper this morning.

It’s just me and the birds—the whole world is sleeping

—a song of suffering catches at the back of the rooster’s throat so he cannot awaken the others.

And the sky is growing white.

I wonder what the birds are thinking as my heart beats at my back.

I wonder if they know my secrets,

symbols in my eyes, my strange pleasures, the power in my mind

—power between my thighs.

The scroll unrolls ever so slowly, and I have to say

I’m waiting for the lightning,

filling my teacup with hot water, soothing me. Calming me.

I’m waiting for the sky to blister and shatter

and for orange to return; for sunset to burn

and for all the doves

to carry me home.