Runaway Moon

Awake in the board book, asleep in the board book, asleep in myself.
I thought the chair was a chair.
It turns out the couch is a chair.
It turns out the bed is a kitchen table and not for sharing.

2:00 am, I asked my husband as he handed me the baby, "Am I a grocery
store?" I meant it. He said, "More like a convenience store." 3:00 am she was
asleep; he asked if we'd pickled the baby to sleep. He meant it. The books on
our bedside table, stacks from beforetimes, went unread.


Margaret Wise Brown's young rabbit leads a fabulous life you can tell.
Leopard print, balloons, wings, the blue expanse.

I try not to miss the misery hours.
They were misery, a sick leopard.
But the wings.

They were misery
I thought. No. Not misery.
They were the blue expanse.

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Lori Green Pipan is a writer who texts eavesdropping to her family and dreams to her friends. She has: 1 home, 1 husband, 1 hand lino press, 2 daughters, 3 raspberry bushes, 5 siblings, some publications, some friends, some novels in the drawer, 0 oboe reeds, 0 second languages, 14 journals, and 1,400 books. She was raised Catholic. She was raised by the Potomac.