Looking up from the neighbors’ quaint cabin below
I must glow in the sunset light shining
through the windows.
Perhaps they see a crazy woman
dead still in a rocking chair, glass
of wine or cocktail in one hand,
forehead in the other.
Do they think I’m resting, enjoying the view?
Do they know about the kind of quiet
that is too quiet?
This house is a monastery, home to a cloister
of former selves all seeking salvation
from yet another Self.
Today salvation is served with a lime and crushed ice.
Can my neighbors tell, when they
peer up through the blinds half-closed,
that my eyes are shut and puffy?
All I do by this window is wish for wings, cry
and pray to the radiant heat as it presses
against my eyelids, pray that
the sun will swallow me whole.


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