The ring plunges into my sleep,
scissors my dream to pieces.
I pace the floor and the cradle the phone
the way one soothes a baby.
Her voice leaps and collapses,
sorts through heaps of emotion
that cannot wait until morning.
The mental illness makes everything urgent,
every thought, her body heaving, giving birth.
Nothing exists except the current minute swinging
like a pendulum over her chest.
After Goodbyes, I watch the moon,
a thin slice of maternal light
surrounded by the darkness.
I know the rest of it's there
I just can't see it.



�2006 by Kerri Rochelle