prose writes

And... a poem... or something. I'm not sure.

HYPOGLYCEMIC NIGHTS

Every night before bed, Take your snack.

Then, every now and again—even if I listen—I wake unable to find the opening from where I hear Mother’s voice. Sheets wrapped tangly about my head, thighs sticky with sweat, and arms shaking from within Dad’s old, torn sleeves—my new sleep shirt. Mother—or a friend’s mom, on sleepover nights—offers peanut-buttered crackers and milk when I get my head free enough to see. Not minding the crumbs in bed, not worrying if my teeth stay un-brushed until morning smells my dead-insect breath, Mother makes creases beside me until nothing’s dizzy anymore. Until, Okay.