I Am The 4am Daughter

I am the 4am daughter
of the slippery epiphanies;

of the unspoken-come-back-and-haunt-you
truths from the days before;

of the wailing until sleep comes again;

of the bleary, backing-into-it love making.

I am the 4am daughter
of the secret songs and talking tales
for how the universe got here;

of the gleanings too wise to bring with me
into the sunrise;

of the fumbling-to-find-the-paper-and-pen-
please-don’t-go-away-before-I-can-catch-you poems;

of the coyote’s first hallelujah chorus because it’s so damned
good to be living this life.

I am the 4am daughter
of the grief that takes my bones apart
one by one;

of the deep dream breath which carries certainty
of my place on the earth;

of the numbing insecurity that has me question
my right to be here;

of the sweetness of naked limbs
between linen sheets
and one snoring elkhound. Or,

I am the 4am daughter
of endless lists and impossible expectations,
and you-better-get-it-right-this-time’s
and glorious, unconditional gratitude

for peach-bellied robin’s last dreams of the night.
And sometimes, if I miss this bus,
I am the 4am daughter of sleeping right through.

2013