Unknown

To look at her
you’d never think she was the sort
to hide a flask
in a sock drawer.
To need a snort
before bedtime
twice a week; to
wake up sweating
because she dreamed
of a house she
lived in when she
was only twelve.
Why would such a girl cry herself
to sleep when nothing
but sunshine wakes
her, while memories stick to eyelids,
pooling softly
between flesh and spirit? How much
can we know
of anyone, as
the sun rises,
sleeps, and rises
East—calling the
good world awake,
and people to
put their dreams to bed.
Days end; worlds spin.
Sadness comes and goes. Yet on
Sunday mornings
she pulls on
her boots and walks
to church to sing.