Back from travels,
shoes still unpacked all over a floor already littered with tickets and odd socks.
Back from curving mountain roads where Balkan women hold their dead husbands
as their children bleed life.
I walked in, pregnant and smiling like a knife to the chest for grieving dears.
I'm back from where sirens are silenced by the inkiness of night.
Where the river has not flowed for several years now and the yellow poplars stand sentinel
and I sleep, sleep