Witching Hour
I dress silently
as if to leave by night
only to sit at the kitchen table
my mother's hands my own
rattling a cigarette between my fingers.
You wake to find me smoking
in the damp heat of the night,
my black hair spread across my shoulders.
You gather me in your arms
like a child that needs soothing
and carry me back to bed.
The cool of the sheets
is an answer for a time.
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