Daughter At Bedtime

Hide from dipping violets, wallpaper

flowers that seem to lean

toward you as you try to bring

on sleep, listen for the tinkling

of ice in a beveled water glass

as your mother moves through upstairs

halls. Listen for ambulances. Finger

the scar along your arm, refuse to turn

your back to an open space for fear of dead

relatives that might scrape your shoulder

with cold fingernails. An older cousin

has frightened you with stories. Wonder

if you’d hear burglars as they enter,

how you’d plead for your life. Beg

for stories: crocodile, elephant, words in

French, man in a fez. Think tongue. Tell

mother you’ve been petting the dog as she

holds your hands to her face and inhales.