Sleep is a strange box
to keep myself in
while I am gone.
I have swallowed a key.
As from a distance I hear some bird
clatter against the tin walls,
bleating dreams. If there is a door,
is there a lock? I have hidden the key
somewhere I will not find it. You are only
a song on the radio. I am absent here;
I have given all my memories to a machine.
Tammy Bendetti, her husband, and their two daughters live in Colorado in a crooked old house. In addition to writing and painting, Tammy dances badly, but with gusto. You can find her recent work in Alyss, Virga, and Bitopia. Her first chapbook is forthcoming from Lithic Press.