Under the thumb
of a great black glove I lie
pinned to the rancid pillow
of the bed my granddad died in.
Flattened by the vastness of the room
I wake to dark panes rattling
and the sound of my small universe
unravelling to a heap of wool.
I am ripped back to the last stitch;
the night itself spools back and back
until my skin dissolves, my bones
begin to melt. I shrink and sink
slowly into sleep again, see
my gran’s grey needles lift, twelve stitches
safe. Click of bird feet, clink of bottles.
Light floods the room until I wake again.