Hiss-pull, hiss-pull—

the machine breathes slow,
a steady rhythm I’ve come
to know better than my own pulse.
 
It ticks above the green thrifted chair,
moving past the quiet dark.
 
Outside, a dog barks once.
Oak roots twist and grip the congrete
ditch that runs deep beside the neighbor’s yard.
 
Blinds stay shut, but I catch
the streetlamp’s low silver spill
across my pillowcase. Porch moths
batter the glass,
wings fragile secrets.
 
I crack the window just enough—
enough for the slow
insistence of moths and moonlight
to slip inside this small room.
 
This body has learned a different kind of place—