An Unseen Woman’s Scream Wakes Ghosts Near Daybreak
All the house’s Argus-eyes are open,
so that, high-pitched but breaking, it bursts in
like gale waves smashing Malta’s Azure Window
down to gravel. Hearing it, she stands,
looks out the window for the dying siren.
He rolls over, unaware as usual.
Was it real? Dawn’s near and first birds screech
what people call a song, but in it she
has always heard that whistle in her purse.
More than air she needs him to have heard it.
It’s just the birds, he says, their timbre almost
matches a scream. They want her to agree.
He makes a show of closing all the windows.
There is quiet. He is sleeping. She lies, silent,
smashing windows with her muffled cries.
A mother wanders the border
and cries ghost apples pregnant with bees.
She begins appearing in Insta-stories,
young white women smiling beside her.
They try to help her find her children
by posting images between classes.