Let me start by saying: when I woke

I knew it wasn’t true. She wasn’t gone,

I hadn’t wept real tears, I didn’t 

have to find a way to tell my brother—

whose number I do have—what happened,

and he didn’t have to blame me, for that

or anything else. And in the darkness

of her room, where on and off I’ve slept 

since her last fall, I knew she would return.

That she would soon be well, enough 

to climb these stairs and find her own place

to rest. And knew this, too: that one night

would bring a different dream, disguised 

as solace—and wake instead to grief.

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