The Arava Review

On a still winter night I can hear
the sea crashing on itself a mile
to the east, a storm far out in
the cold grey Atlantic pushing
waves to tear at the dunes.

An alpha coywolf calls her pack,
something to kill in the frozen
marsh. Later in my insomnia
the great horned owl hunting
through the trees give her five

beated whooing. Sleep dangles
itself before me like a sweet
black plum just out of reach.
Something screams nearby,
a shriek of dying? On nights

like this all my omissions
materialize out of the darkness
wraiths of shoulds and oughts
and my wrongs committed
climb like an incubus onto my chest.

Even the high chest of drawers
seems judgmental. Dresses
whisper together in the closet
of stains and errors. Let dawn
finally heal me to myself.

-Marge Piercy