Early, too early,
he awakens me.

Do you think it possible, he asks, that
by imagining that you’ve heard something,
you will it into being?

I do not know, I answer. I know
I have imagined that I did not hear something
and it changed nothing. The words
still stung, the gun still found its mark,
and sham declarations of loyalty
still hung others out to dry
even as they smiled to hear them.

That’s a comfort, he replies. Just now
I was sure that I heard vultures
longing for your hide, and I would hate to think
that I might have created them.

I think of all the lies
he has told me before,
and wrap myself so tightly
in the faux-down of the comforter
that no sliver of skin can be seen,
my head so deep beneath the pillow
I hear only rumors
of unfolding wings.