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