I spent all of September

lying on the floor

of my sister’s guest room,

cool air billowing

through tissue-thin curtains,

dust adrift in sunlight.

I was waiting for ghosts

to speak to me,

to lift me up with

their rambling histories.

I wanted someone else’s

tragedy to hold onto.

Only in the small hours

could I unclench:

my fists, nails imprinted on palms

from holding myself in,

the space between

my hipbones shuddering.

What do you call a nursery

that never blooms?

The deluge came

unmaking everything.