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"Safe Space" by Eva Dominelli

The Night Shift by Kyle Marbut

​My roommate tells me I scream in my sleep. Loud.
                It wakes him up. Sometimes
                                              I speak. Things
                                     like potato bird
                                                or feather duster
                                  or my belly is full
                                                          of trees. I shout,
                         I am going to sleep,
                                         even though I am already sleeping.
He says I sound angry. He says
                                      my voice snaps
                      like a handful of marbles, spilling
               on asphalt. When I wake
                                                        my throat is dry, raw--
                                                I am so thirsty. Sometimes
                                  I can’t sleep, but stay
                  in bed anyway, juggling the cold
                                             side of the pillow, listening
                              to the ceiling fan move
                                                             the air. It seems polite
                                                  to be quiet, to count
                  my breaths. When I was small,
I sleepwalked to the kitchen,
                                 the cupboard, opened
                                                  jars of tomato sauce
                                       and green olives.
                     My grandfather found me
                               in the spill, red stream
                                                down my front, he washed
                                     my face, changed
                 my shirt, carried me
                                                  back to bed. Once,
he caught me at the front door, mumbling
                       kitty, kitty. Another time, he heard
                            the sliding glass door
                                           grind open. I was sleeping
                            toward the backyard,
                                         the creek—overflowing
                     with fresh rain. He woke
alert when anything larger than cat moved
                                     in his house. He learned to hide
                                the steak knives
                                         and bolt the doors, always
                        tucking me under the covers
                   near dawn. He worked
                                   the night shift at the airplane factory
                                                                 before he retired. He was used
                                                 to being awake in the dark.
After he died I had nightmares. For months
                               my mother found me
                   sleeping on her red dresses, ripped
                                                              from their hangers, curled
                                               at the foot of her bed. I told her
                            in my dreams I had wandered through
               the stooped Japanese maples, climbed
                                the cobbled steps
                                                of my grandparents’ house.
                             The floors writhed, covered
                                               in thick banded sea snakes
                    with scorpion tails. Clear
     water gushed in through the living room windows.
                                                               And my grandfather,
                                  in his easy chair, suspended
                                                from the ceiling
                   by a fraying length of twine,
smoked a cigar, burning
                  to white ash. My mother told me
                                                   dreams are a message
                                   from ourselves, that someday
               I might understand. Still, now
                                                I am afraid to live
                                 alone, of what moves through me, sleeping
toward the house            the cupboard
                 the knives            the sliding glass
                              the dresses         my mother
                                              the door               the yard
                                                              the maples          the tall grass
                                                                              the water             the water
the water. The night shifts, and I am
                                   giving speeches. I can speak
                     with my eyes closed. After waking I see
                                              my pillows and blankets
                               strewn across the room, my feet
                                                             muddy, my throat
               sore, and when I ask where I am
                              going, some part of me
                                 answers, reaching after the shadows
of my hands with my hands.

Kyle Marbut is a queer poet who lives and writes in northeast Ohio. Their poetry has appeared in Glass: A Journal of Poetry. 

​Eva Dominelli is a Vancouver artist and freelance Illustrator with a BFA in Illustration from Emily Carr University of Art and Design. Her mysterious gouache and ink illustrations playfully investigate the relationship between the private and the public experience of the everyday. She is currently working on her upcoming artist’s book Between Being & Nothingness.

You can view more of her work at evadominelli.com, on facebook @evadominelliillustration or on instagram @eva.avenue.
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