Night Sounds

Night Sounds

Night Sounds

I can hear myself moving around
                            in the dark. My footsteps
               lagging up the stairs. Now
I am quiet, listening to the light
                               that strikes the plant in
              leaves of light at the turn.

An animal in the brush, large
                              enough to encompass a shuffle
               here, a footfall there. Ooh.
I am lovely in my sounds.
                             I am moonlight and darkness,
               death and habitation.

I thrill to the sounds my memory hears.
                              Sounds I have made in my life
               through all my life – a child’s hand reaching
for water, chink of the glass
                             replaced. They moon about
              the house, free to help themselves.

They do. How bright it is
                             in the fridge! You can hardly
              bear such brightness. But where am I
between this soft thud
                             and the next? I am in all rooms,
               on all stairs, lumbering and animal,

enough to make you worry
                              when a door clicks and I, on this side
              or on that, forget myself. Hear that?
What? Nothing, I hear nothing.
                              Only the pillow crackling,
               a rasp, a whistle of breath.