In February when the nights are black with ice
and I want nothing more than sleep, my brain
and heart conspire against me. I feel the way my
face sets in the dark, and I know I look like my
father. I wonder if he hears footsteps in his sleep. I
think of the misguided flight of cardinals, a grave
scooped into a pile of cinders. I think of house
fires and warm baths, and the weight of a child in
a fireman’s arms. I wonder at the things we don’t
even know to be afraid of. That strange bend
beyond our nightly sleep, how the world picks up
speed and blurs the edge of dreams.
Brent Fisk is a writer from Bowling Green,
Kentucky with forthcoming work in Gravel, and
Forge. He will begin work on his MFA this fall.