This morning he keeps me hushed in drifted cotton–
the windows sealed,the birds at bay–
and he asks about the dream, the furrow in my brow.
I tell him of the apocalypse I can never stop
and of the python that strangles the mallard duck
on a pond in a park a mile from where I was born.
I tell him how my mother’s hand feels in mine,
how she does not tell me to look away.