I want to go back.
Forward rather, under
Vapor, sweet as symphonies
Rising, falling coincidentally with each breath mother took
The lifting of her cushioned chest, cradling my achy, heavy head

After she tucked me in (feet covered, as if the air kissing my
Toes might become a switch to conscientiousness)
I lied to her, I made her believe
That I, too, rotated under transparent sheets, dreams
Twirled into freedom from earth.
But I laid behind locked bars
Crying and continued to plead guilty.

A blanket, sturdy, protective
It sits, at least I think it does. Three-sided and pushed up against a wall
I wonder if I put it there.
Holding the key to dreams, she cradles me in the darkness
A blend of color and mystery from the lamppost glowing through the windowpane
Morphing around the streaks, marks left by some knock-of brand of windex

Through this glass, mother caught my sleepless lie
Remorseful and gentle she cradled me in streams of flashes
Familiar and warm lights of the street cars
A driver seat of drunks, or late-shift hospital workers
Flying somewhere else, anywhere else
Later nights I would distinguish between the two.
Not very far off, without breath, she spoke of
thick dreams and sweet souls
she wondered and gleamed
At that blankets with holes