Death, My New Mother

My dad ran over a baby

bunny when I was 5 and I imagined death was nothing

but a dark closet with an ear pressed to the wall,

still (and only) able to hear friends from daycare playing in the backyard.

In a twin bed my tiny body clamped itself shut,

curdling over an end I would one day fantasize about.

Death only ever strokes my back at night these days

the way my mother used to when I’d awaken from

nightmares of the monsters magnetized to our refrigerator door.

Now I see monsters everywhere in the waking.

Mother Death’s never hurt me the way they have.

Kit Daivey is a home body with with two yorkie fur babies and a knitting addiction. She enjoys documentaries and sitting in her car to think.