A moonlined question-mark clings in the gloom
of a frozen hatstand — skeleton at rest
rattles long-thought-superseded childhood ghosts.
It was always the skeletons scared her the most:
blind skulls in black tunnels, bones and blades assembled
(and she listens to darkness, to blackness heaving)
like splinters of lightning, spiteful Luna Park laughter
dangling grotesque from some nightmare rafter
(and she hears her baby's meticulous breathing).
What innermost dread must those bones have resembled …
By dawn when the night has been skinned of its boast
she could smile at the merry-go-round on a post
if the carousel morning allowed it. Her breasts
carve sunlined questions in the wide eyes of her womb.