red sky at night, sailor’s delight; red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning

The wind knocks all night, no knuckles.

No tremoring hands, no shoulders

hooked like question marks

in an overcoat. Mom is half-awake,

window shopping for earrings

held behind the tempered glass

of our television. The wind

shaking our small trailer

sounds like a bloodhound

dying in a well. We live in the echo

of a last slurred moan.

I draw a wind-rattled outline of a star

on the popcorn ceiling,

while forcing myself

to count the blemishes within.

The lamp I leave on

lights a corner of my room,

giving that single star a jaundiced glow.

I counted the specks until I’d forgotten

what I wanted to forget:

Mom cooling her rye-wet lips

by the cracked window;

another blackout, another storm that cuts

the power in our walls; my hips sore

from tossing over, my clock blinking into sunrise;

how the morning wind streaks the sky

red like a sailor’s face chafed raw.