Make sleep be drunk under lemonpeel stars,
beneath the canopied bed I am moon-sunk.
Stuck to the bed by the weight of the dark,
I dream:
My mother is old, not buried,
her hair wound in a bun.
Carnival spun cotton candy blue pink wisps.
She says

In the morning
your ribcage pulls apart easily.
My fingers gently tug,
your eyes are rocks of empty and a pile in my lap.
Sitting suspended in your cavity
is heart, dripping syrup and moving magic.
I let it rest inside my palm before I pull it out.
And then I know it’s over.
Sewing steady, a hummingbird’s beat;
I’m saving your life.