Charles Street

I used to dream of a house that opened room into room into room. Or a yard full of wild tame animals -- turkeys, a lion, a bear. Our cat watches ghosts track across the ceiling, puts her head inside the toilet bowl and yowls. We ask her what she's thinking, but she never tells us who. All spring I sleep with my back against the moon, while my husband opens the curtains, positions me in its pool. He checks my breathing, covers my face with vines, my wild gray hair. He lifts my hand and drops it. I never move.