Like it could be true

she drags her small bones
down the hall at 3 a.m.
shaking from something
with teeth
in the dark of her own skull

now—
dead-still on my sheets
arms flung up
in surrender

the cheap red cotton
twisted up
not doing its job

a synthetic cat
stares from her chest
blind
to whatever waits
outside the door

she believes in this—
the mattress
the pillows
the narrow border of my arms

cause and effect:
a dream
a sprint
her
here

I listen—
the wet drag of her breath
the iron clatter
of the radiator

she thinks
we are safe

I hold her
like that could be true

morning
comes anyway
dragging light
across the floor