I slip from the low thrum of this dream-
state on the first dawn of a new year, ponder

my dead father's visit: his robust body a vision
of health once more, not a glimmer of glioblastoma

poised to invade his cells, to proliferate
loss in the strange sanctuary of his mind.

Time exists in the in-between, and I feel it
threaten to slip away even as he solemnly coos,

cradles a crying infant I know to be mine; could it
possibly be a sign that this one will finally be

viable? Perhaps this time it could stay, not eye the exit,
entirely too eager to be carried away with the receding tide

I know so well. For once, I will myself to feel it all
fully, a foreign freedom gently nudging me to revel

in each flicker of hope before the unfolding of another
sterile, somber era. I resolve not to think of its high walls

that cloister at first, then eagerly enfold me in a cold,
colorless cocoon. I pause in lemony light as my eyes

adjust to the still shadow of an eclipsed unknowing, at last
allowing the unfamiliar dew of peace to settle upon me