Cradle

Some days, there’s little left of me to give. I crawl under the covers and turn to sleep, the haunt of dreams. The ghost-baby crying in the empty cave of my belly, trying to boat her to a safe island while I sleep. There’s so much work to do in the world under this world, the world that opens itself like a glorious cavern during sleep. Sometimes, I wonder which world holds my real work. I wake, more tired than when I slept, from the labor. All that labor. And no ghost-baby in my waking arms.