For years

I dreamed of pushing
with palms and soles

against the coffin lid.
Now I lay in the dark

under the wool blanket,
settling into a comfort,

imagining the feelings
of a mother’s warmth.

Being my own mother
has not been the same

as wanting to have one
that holds and loves me.

There is no more pushing.
I lay here and quietly listen.

Am still in bed at 11:16 AM, under the Pendleton blanket,
thumb tapping on my IPhone. Don’t wanna get up at all.