Nights

I carry a lifetime’s worth of nights in my throat.
But only one at a time will fit into the coin pocket of my jeans.
The crows keep stealing my dreams.
They pawn the grubby rags
           for a couple of cents a pound.
When the burrowing owls
           pull down the moon and fling it at my heart,
           they intend to maim but miss
           and spill marmalade moon shine
           on the floor.
I cannot stop to wait for you to breathe.
I cannot stop pointing out
           the disappearing stars.

Larisa Harriger is a writer, former web geek, and Master of Librarianship who lives with her husband, a black dog, and some scenic sheep in the Snoqualmie Valley. She has been published in the Pittsburgh Poetry Houses, A Door is a Jar, and the American Journal of Poetry. You can read her occasional ramblings at shinymagpie.net.