breathe for me
gina m. tabasso
I get scares when I hear stories
of other women who are afraid of the dark
and sleep walk, the word “father”
always comes from their mouths
to make me choke on what I am
forgetting, what they think they remember
and Scott understands this
even though his nightmare had breasts
and came to him in an early morning
guest house when father left to school
in a denial of scotch and cigars
coming back to what scares me
I sidetrack, talk myself out
of the Boogie man’s underbed
taking a down feather with me
to tickle his tight purple
poorly-circulating feet,
playing a game of hide-and-seek
where I am hiding and I am IT
and his big moth is the only place
large enough to fit, to sit still,
to stop breathing and let someone else
breathe for me.