The moon’s so bright I can’t sleep. I’m rocking myself,
an invisible cradle holds me. I never had a cradle, even
though I wouldn’t remember those things—
babyhood, staring at strange ceilings.
My body remembers the lack of a wooden structure.
The sensation of boat moving me from side to side.
I keep buying wooden rockers. Without arms. I don’t
want to be trapped. But back then, I needed safety
that I didn’t get. My parents told me that if you trust
the world, no one will take advantage of you.
They left the front door wide open every night.
Forget the ropes, the chains.
It was the neighbor with the fancy alarm
system who was burglarized. We had things
and money, too. The first VCR on the block.
And now, even my heart’s a diamond
mine, ready for extraction. I’m ready to be
cradled—human arm-bones the bed I never had.
Otherwise, I’ll wait for the full moon to wane,
step up into it, and, finally, rock to sleep.