By Adelaide Gifford
I am awake
alone, left
in lightless
night, nearing
the hour where
witches begin
their broom rides,
when you watch me
watch water
swirl in my mug
and I hear
your heart
from behind
blooming basil
we snipped and
sprinkled
on spaghetti
at dinner,
mute mouse,
head whole
with eerie eyes,
you squeak
and scurry
in the teal tray
that protects
pint-sized plants,
and I hold you
in my hand, feel
the fur of your
fragile frame,
open the door
to winter night
numbing me, nearly
naked
against cold,
cup you close
one more time,
and place you
on the porch,
watch you
whisk away.
