What does it mean that I’ve been dreaming
about sunlight moving through old houses
again? Vine-shadow on wood floors, endless
rooms, the sound of wingbeats without birds.
Pittsburgh wisdom says you need a week in Florida
when you can’t get out of bed. I up or down
my dose of antidepressants when the clocks change.
In the dreams, I wear a white dress, dust dragged
along its hem. The houses are dis-inhabited
but I know I’ve lived in some version of them.
In real life I try to leave the past empty, open;
a good mother haunts her life only in forward motion.
When the nerves at my right hip shriek down my leg,
I know it means my body needs to stretch.
I should exercise, drink more water, rest—
but I get through winter reading Gothic horror;
I trust myself with only so much selfishness.
In this city, potholes become a sign of character
as much as of neglect. I remind my children all is still well
when the bridges sway. In traffic, we count turkey vultures
circling in the steel gray and call it soaring.
