By Lisa Ortiz

Wake now from that dream you had
about yourself in red gauze, yourself with wings,

yourself with a gun at a movie theater,
these dreams in which you are always alone

and where is your family? Wake now
and listen for the seraphic rustle

of your daughters, the scent
of your husband twisting like an alpine creek

and this is why you stay up late listening
after they've been swept to bed and this is why

you wake up before they do
to be there for them, to catch them

floating down on parachutes from the high lonely
midnight flight, embrace them into this brief day you share

this one day gripped in your palm, coffee
and a roll to devour, devour.

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