Susan

Holly Day

 

I stood and watched you sleeping, had

stood there watching for nearly five minutes in

the shadow of the 

hallway for nearly five minutes of circus

time before I dropped your purse on the chair, quiet as death 

and slipped out the door, defying

detection. Your bare back

was open to anyone and everyone coming in, bareback

riders slip in through the cracks of hotel security all the time, defying

even little girl sanctity. Yesterday, I dreamt of your death

how I would deal with it, wondering if you survived the circus

of the imaginary midnight ambushes that haunted my mind, the

big sister duties I’d imposed upon myself stuck in

my head, driving me crazy–Why didn’t you call this morning? I had

this idea of how this would all work out, I had

it all planned out, but I can’t play everyone’s mother, not in

this life. I’m stretched too thin as it is. The

alarm clock rings in my head before true circus

time, and I can’t sleep for worrying about you, little girl—death.

Nobody is going to come when you scream. It defies

all logic, but it’s true. You left your bare back

open all night. Please tell me you lock your door now.

Please tell me 

you’re all right.