p a s s e n g e r, s l e e p
A M Y H O L M A N
Attention: sleep, passenger. Small girl, back seat,
I'd figure the sleeping form at the sound of fights.
You're not asleep, she's not asleep, John said, left
alone in an air of ruin. But they'd quiet him and
themselves, in deference or by benefit, slipping me
the reins. Who is the guilty one? He who drove the
miscarriage, or he who fed the horses? Who is more
lonely? The soul who ghosts the ruin, or the architect
of the brand new house? Kill her, kill that girl, small
John said to Mom before sleep, for I am the only one.