She tries to sleep, tries to lie still
as a tree, but she feels
her roots splintering. The city’s lights
swarm through the window.
Bits of her broken history
rush through her head. She reminds herself
to take deep calm breaths,
but her head is spinning like a planet
from her grandmother’s house
with the wicker chairs, to the days she spent
folded in the closet, in the dust,
to the black leaves frozen
in the gutter, to the tunes
she heard on TV. She stumbles
out of bed and opens
the window. Night air
glides through the room
like a swan.
She tries to time her breaths
to the wind.
Written for We Write Poems wordle 11.