around the house by the glow of fairy lights
from above the window and a lemon moon
centered underneath. There is a path worn
into the saltillo floor made of feral dog prints
and worry which I follow believing after midnight

they lead away from want. I could drip
coffee into his old ceramic mug, flip through
recipe porn on the kitchen table, shake relief
from a bottle marked with my name
or read stories meant for morning

but I won’t. I will walk until night
recedes into the platinum monotony
of footfalls, exhausting any expectation
of ghosts to cheer the unfamiliar
nursery rhyme of sleep.

Selected byMaria Mazzenga
Image credit:Tomasz Pawluk

Sara Clancy is a Philadelphia transplant to the Southwest.  Her chapbook Ghost Logic won the 2017 Turtle Island Quarterly Editors Choice Award. Among other places, her poems have appeared in Off the Coast, The Linnet's Wings, Crab Creek Review, The Madison Review, Misfit Magazine, Avatar Review and Verse Wisconsin. She lives in the desert with her husband, their dog, two ordinary cats and a psychotic cross-eyed one.