'[Momma I Can't Sleep]', by Taffeta Chime
Momma, I can’t sleep.
Me either, baby.
Mind is awake,
wondering, wandering
through past, present, future.
Eyes are wide,
making sense of shadows.
Even when shut,
they swirl red behind their lids.
Momma, can you sing me a song?
Yes, if that will calm you.
But lips move and voice rasps,
heart forgets the soothing lullaby.
Just words.
More noise thrown to the void.
Momma, I’m thirsty.
I understand, sweetie.
Parched for a different life.
Thinking through what-ifs,
brokenness of reality,
audacity of US.
Wanting a drink of justice
a drop of empathy
a gulp of wisdom
and quenching joy.
Momma, I thought I saw a monster.
I did—
many monsters.
They hurt, kill
grin, like,
indeed right there,
in our screen,
our house,
bed.
Momma, my bear isn’t playing her song.
Can you wind her up for me?
She is already wound so tightly
she won’t sing anymore,
Mother Bear.
Momma, I had an accident.
It’s okay, honey, accidents happen.
They keep me up at night too.
Soaked in regret,
stained with mistakes.
I think back on them every night.
Momma, can you turn on my lamp?
I can,
illuminating darkness.
My bulb is burned out;
turning the switch does nothing.
Always in darkness,
eyes still adjusting.
Momma, I had a bad dream.
Me too, baby.
Every day
when I wake.
Taffeta Chime, a lifelong fabulist and logolept, has two published novels (Stoodie, 2007, and The Last, 2011) and several short stories, poems, and articles printed across many publications (including Dandelion Scribes, Short Édition, and Farewell, Neverland). She currently works as a freelance writer and editor in Tennessee.
