or upside down sheets. Beware
of upside down dreams – the dog on the roof
crowing sunset, the sun orbiting the moon and you
crouching on its surface mining gold from crater dust,
gold being flakes of stars beneath your feet,
you stand on skies, suspended.
Beware of eyes peeping through bedroom doors
left cracked as if your eyelids could watch
the hallway, shadows cast by nightlights.
Don’t let them intermingle with your eyelashes,
knot themselves into the braids of your hair –
there is always something in the darkness.
My mother’s words, warning, as she tucked
the bottoms of sheets and blankets beneath
our feet, edges around our bodies, guarding
every inch, the spaces between our toes,
the gangly little girl arms that could not
be wings because we were cocooned.
—Sydney Gabourel