hello 3 a.m.,
my fair faced friend, the mother who tucks me in;
rest rest, child.

seven years ago you were real,
you couldn't walk up the stairs, never did see my
new room, but you were real
nonetheless.
I'm this gawky thing in the fetal position
with the smell of pot curled up behind me,
sister saying, let me sleep here, here.
she had come from church.

I only had a twin bed,
but she was good company
under left over fireworks and
those drafty windows and radiator sounds.
I had never lived in an old house.

it's a new year, I whispered to sister,
but she was just breath on the back of my hair
tangling up in her face.

let her rest rest, child.
in the morning she would be mother,
because they would take off your jewelry
and phone the preacher's wife.