The doors keep opening,
And though my head is still heavy for the pillow,
I accept it as a slamming omen,
To at least write this sentence,
About opening, slamming, sentence-rising, omens.

It came to me in the night.
So it must be true.
A story not yet told in the way it wants to be,
But reaching out for me,
With an obscured and groping hand.

If I write a thousand pages in four sentences, can I please sleep?

My first pregnancy gave me my first child.
My second pregnancy put a makeshift headstone under the lilac in the corner garden.
My third pregnancy pulled my soul up my throat in dry-heaved grief.
My fourth pregnancy seared my wounds with the deliverance of my second child.

Sleep is fertile ground for stringing worlds and words.
With this lazy rational,
I crawl greedily back into bed.