I'm home after eight
months, back in the country.
The river's high,
High enough to drown in.
The rosebeds are overgrown
My mother calls them her
I picture her with pruning shears,
Clipping away at their dusty wings.
The moon is out after weeks of rain,
timid in the weight of light.
Tonight before I sleep I'll check
The corners of my room for scorpions
They cling to the ceiling, you know?
They drop during the night.
They sting you in your sleep.