All night I turn between lover and daughter, holding one and then the other. Before dawn I have slipped out of bed, leaving them together, the man’s broad chest uncovered, the child’s blond hair hiding her face. I remember nights as a child, wedged between my parents, the sinking down to sleep surrounded by familiar things. When death beats its wings at the window, I hope I am not standing alone in the kitchen with a cup and a hairbrush, watching doves on a wire. I want to curl up in that dim, disordered bed where all my loves lie, elbow to cheek; I want the brief reprieve as the angel who came for me pauses, uncertain, trying to distinguish one breath from another.
From The Philosopher’s Club by Kim Addonizio. © 1994 by Kim Addonizio. Reprinted with permission of BOA Editions, Ltd., 92 Park Avenue, Brockport, NY 14420.
— Ed.
