The moon is down

in the room where my Mother and I sat

there

dark and cold under cloudless skies.

I imagine that cars creep by

throwing their lights around the corner of the walls

disappearing, appearing again

a cold, silent place

waiting for the well to be turned back on

and the electricity

I sit here thinking about Galavani's dreams of resurrection

and about those warm, wood lit nights.

and her 3am voice