�

beneath the covers: trapped breath below the soft cotton print of flowers, or inky blue that changes two shades lighter against the overhead light, i would breathe heavily against the fabric, hearing things from the kitchen- voices turned up high- on the verge of yelling/shouting/fighting-

and i would sing songs to myself

nursery rhymes off key

to different tunes

or dolly parton songs my father had played on long car rides

or loretta lynn against the twang of guitar

it came out sounding different pressed up against my voice, trapped down below

near the fitted sheet- one corner always coming up, the elastic giving way

singing these love songs in raspy whispers

and eventually i�d sing myself to sleep