the nurse wakes me at 3 a.m. to stick me
with a needle. i need your blood
she tells me and i lend her my arm.
the rubber band wraps tightly around
my skin and i lay with my head turned
away from her body as she laments
the passing of night.
her perfume smells of nutmeg and it burns
my throat. the needle enters and she assures
me that everything is going to be okay. i gauge
her right then and question how she knows
such things to be true. she is silent
for a moment and i can feel her breath
against my back.
she carries her body to the window,
extending her arm to the glass.
she points. see there, she says
that bright yellow light in the sky—
that is home. i watch her fingers glide
in still motions against her hard reflection,
her body swaying into the soft
haze that covers the room.
i turn my body against hers against
that yellow orb in the night’s sky
i can hear her humming a familiar
tune, her voice an instrument i want
to hold between my fingers.
always the moon,
always the moon.
she sings — and my body falls
slowly — into existence.
Victoria Mullis is a writer from Franklin, Indiana. She is an enthusiastic lover of all things coffee and plans to pursue a graduate degree in creative writing.