madeleine

Tonight's moon is cresting, the shape of a fat D in a book of alphabets. It is a sagging belly, the end of a promise. The sky is thumbprinted and smoky. A lid, not a dome.

I've been awake for three days. First comes weariness, then the second wind brought on by stolen swigs in back rooms and offices, from numerous coffee cups. Then a slow, dull edge, grumbling at my concentration. My awareness recedes. I am forgetful, but I can't nod off. And finally, I achieve a slow lucidity. I couldn't sleep if I tried. I could remain like this forever, completing task after task at an even, rhythmic pace. Routine is my friend. But even when the unexpected occurs, I rifle through the file of responses in my mind and everything is okay. I am static. I am immovable. I can reach unfeeling.

Only, when I go outside at night, the emptiness of the world around me feels like a muttered threat. I suck in the dark air, and the cardboard cutouts of tree branches scrape together in the breeze. Somewhere, a dog lets out a high-pitched bark, only one. For all I know, it could be an imaginary dog, a canine on my brain. I am utterly alone, closed in under the sky.

But the sun always rises, and I can see the distance without wearing my cheap welfare glasses, I can stand outside and not only feel but watch my own hands shaping space. And I sense a vague dissatisfaction. Everything is too simple in the light, and too safe.