Night-glider

By Sarala Estruch

I

You sleep through the days
but at dusk you awaken –
eyes snap open

and down you glide, descend
from your perch, tumble
to the ground.

You stalk the night – hunting
in the silent fields, searching
for a mouse

who won’t turn out to be
a rat, like the one
last Tuesday

who dug his teeth into
your shoulder, left
nail-tracks in

the inner flesh of your
left thigh; who
had fur

on his belly, more fur
on his back – the
black, coarse

kind that makes your skin
rise up in red
wounds

like blood-swollen bites
that itch like hell
the morning after.

II

Days slide by as you dream
of doorways and
rabbit holes

portals out of this world
into the next –
a place

where there are no red skies
because the sun
never sets.

If you could, you would
paint the sky
green

green for grass and hope
and growth. You would
sit back

and watch the dawning
of a green-sky world
that you created –

a place where there
is sky enough
and grass enough

and mice enough
for owls to negotiate
the world

by daylight.

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