NIGHT SOUNDS Poem by Mimi Khalvati

I can hear myself moving around
in the dark. My footsteps
lagging up the stairs. Now
I am quiet, listening to the light
that strikes the plant in
leaves of light at the turn.

An animal in the brush, large
enough to encompass a shuffle
here, a footfall there. Ooh.
I am lovely in my sounds.
I am moonlight and darkness,
death and habitation.

I thrill to the sounds my memory hears.
Sounds I have made in my life
through all my life - a child's hand reaching
for water, chink of the glass
replaced. They moon about
the house, free to help themselves.

They do. How bright it is
in the fridge! You can hardly
bear such brightness. But where am I
between this soft thud
and the next? I am in all rooms,
on all stairs, lumbering and animal,

enough to make you worry
when a door clicks and I, on this side
or on that, forget myself. Hear that?
What? Nothing, I hear nothing.
Only the pillow crackling,
a rasp, a whistle of breath.