The streak of mercury gleams

and I'm six again, trying to read it,

squinting into a mirror-fine

edge that disappears

each time my hand trembles.

Her yellow glove moves in the bathroom,

scrubbing, flushing, disinfecting.

She doesn’t want whatever I’ve got,

and what I want is to sleep now,

but the sheets are blazing white and cold.

What shelf did they break off from,

to float me here? When was that?

All I really remember is

a tall window, a winter sky,

a blade of sunlight hanging

inside an icicle.

                      Tar River Poetry V. 53: No. 2 (2014)