Most nights I roll the hours
I should be sleeping through my fingers
like beads on a rosary.
I don’t pray so
I have no hymnals or ancient scripture to
soften the day I’m trying to leave behind.
Some nights it feels like
ghosts haunt me,
collecting my dreams like lightning bugs.
Other nights I hear Tolstoy
reminding me the fault we find in others
is what we see in ourselves.
Halfway through the rosary
the morning sun rises.
My lashes become cobwebs.
The skin under my eyes a requiem.
I spend my daytime hours
collecting the sorrows of others.
Maybe if I learned how to pray,
I’d pull out that rosary in my drawer and
sleep would finally find me.
Maybe if I found a god I believed in
I could take back those lightning bugs and
turn them into angels.
©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved