Thoughts in the Night in a Home without Shotguns
Doorways are for children, escaping sleep in the yellow light of mothers’ bedrooms, in the fragrant screen of the TV, laying them down to sleep.
If god wants me to wake my mother up, I will wake up my mother.
If god wills me to walk forward on the splintered oak floor out my bedroom, it has already happened. Everything has
already happened. In the nightmare of my fatherless, feminine house – the terror of bare feet.