The Witching Hour

During daylight. When toddlers nap, mothers take their siestas,
men smoke cigarettes after too-heavy lunches. One of many, I am,
one of many beings gazing unblinking into the distance.
I hold my breath until my vision goes white, my skin prickles.
For the sake of breathing, little lungs lined up on cots,
small snores and the orbit of motherhood. How round
can I become, spread like the Vitruvian Man
and plump, ripe as a mango peeled by lamplight.