Trembling

It's an Alfred Hitchcock sort of night.
Birds lurk treacherously on tree limbs.
Clouds bandage a bruised sky.
The crazy man next door yells 
about people dressed in pink and lavender.

I'm sure the clock said 2 a.m.
hours ago, but what do I know?
My pillow is a rock.
I can't catch my breath.

I pretend I'm running barefoot
through the woods.
Wind lifts my hair
and you grab me. We roll
in the fallen leaves.

I had no idea I would lose you, lose
nearly everyone I've loved, would
be captured by illness, watch
my body become mother's.

I turn my face south, set the clock back, 
race headlong into my future all over again,
the sky still trembling with possibilities
                        
                         


Pris Campbell
(c)2011


Art by Mary Hillier, included with the poem when published.

Published in oursboro journal 2008



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