in blank nights,
pages without dreams,
days refusing to be read
a head reclining
not like a saint or the Buddha
but like an indolent dog
calendars of not even knowing
what waiting was for

who isn't afraid
that any shape they choose would
recall the old angers?
needing
to be born anyway
the default is the imminent stillborn
the one who refuses to be born
who has a will of its own
though it hasn't moved a muscle in months

where brains and tongues come from
even lethargy builds rooms
a peck of shell
in the goo of eggs broken for an omelette
asserts itself
feathers work their way out of a pillow
under the reclining cheek
days assemble themselves calligraphically

then she returns aflood
your grandmother's hand waving over the waters
now gingerly touching the cuff of your sleeve
and receding
the dream you flew into
and away from
working your way
through the tight weave of waiting
out to the shape you read

-- Claire Barbetti