Miranda Field


Mirror/skaters diorama.

Night-time glass glows black,

iron radiator’s hulk thrown back, dry air

catches in throat, dark early, hundred-years

sleep war begins, tundra bears down.

Closest you get to actual ghost-hood:

child’s body falls out of bed with a thud—

corpse tossed in a ship’s hold.

Closeted laboring, enlarged heart

of the dark.  This is how it hibernates, my I

still alive in its glass coffin, fake

sleep around the clock.