You dash through the new
moon
night, soft socks padding down the hall until
reaching the
door. Peering in you spy
two slumbering lumps, dead weight
upon the
bed. You slither beneath
the comforter to the faintly breathing
one,
a curved form in motherly fashion. Snuggling
against her,
absorbing her warmth entire, then
slipping below the surface, you press your
head
between her legs, firmly upward
to that place where she bore
you.
You yearn to be suspended in liquid again,
concentric circles of you
and mother and universe,
where your world was your own fluidic
heartbeat,
a warm sanctuary from the cold you now
suffer. Frozen
faces of strangers, pale
as fallen leaves, you leave them behind
in the
smooth transition of days and
days and days of nothing, no thing,
no
thinking at all. You don't remember
the last time you got out of the
house, out
of bed. You are a cooling star upon the mattress
spinning
to an obsolete corner of the universe,
merely dreaming of security, of going
backwards,
of surrendering to
life.