Lisa Shea


Tinny, muted knocks occasionally
pierce the heavy darkness of night,
puncturing through the steady
whoosh of the humidifier, as
forced-hot-water heat eases, slightly,
the four a.m. chill.

I roll on my left side, again, for
perhaps the ninety-seventh time,
my sleepless see-saws an exhausted
shadow of my daily somnambulations -

much as a gray, storm-churned sunset only
casts an echo of a pavement twin
for the girl in a clanging, crowd-roar filled
carnival who wheels, confused,
suddenly realizing her parents are
nowhere in sight,
feeling that balancing moment when
she teeters between excitement on
forging her own path,
and sheer, heart-stopping panic.