The buoyancy with which she survives
the predator. How her body must have
been made for enduring this kind of
carnivore. Breath clawing at a throat
wired shut. Slow metal scrape of a dead
bolt, jaws tightening on torso until she’s
a fish with paper will.
I grow daffodils now, try to reimagine
night and pretend that doors are
simple. Untangle the fingers from my
spine. In therapy, I spend a year
convincing a sparrow it is safe to eat
from my hand. That what looks like food
is food.
It’s 1:02 a.m.
The color of the ceiling is white.
This darkness has no teeth.