Erin Murphy
INSOMNIA CHRONICLES XVII
The night is full of insomniacs Googling insomnia. I dream I have a tiny baby. Tinier than a mouse. Brown as my real baby girl, now grown. I squeeze drops of milk from my nipple into her tiny mouth. That feeling of having nothing else in the world but this being who needs me. Feeding and sleeping, sleeping and feeding. But I lose her. I look everywhere: cupboards and drawers, the hinged jewelry box that holds the pearl necklace I wore to vote. A stranger offers me another tiny baby, pale as seafoam. But I don’t want any baby. I want my baby. Even now that I’m awake, I feel this dull tugging in the heart. A poem called “A Phosphorescence” appears in my inbox. Tree bark glows like a shiny green penny. I think of the significance of the definite article. A phosphorescence, not just phosphorescence. One of many phosphorescences. One of many lights without sparks. Light in the dark. A dark. The baby, a baby. The election, an election. The heart, a heart. One of many.
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