The Sun, A Cyclops

The Sun, A Cyclops

Six AM is not too early for
rabid laughter. Shadowy forms
merge on the doorstep,
we strip off our fishnets in the kitchen
over bowls of plastic lemons.
Later, we’ll crowd, shoulder to shoulder,
into this very room, rehearsing steps,
but for now we spin on candy apple stools,
knees cracking together in the cold.
Night fades into sunrise, striking
my tight-shut eyelids as I attempt to hide
inside faux fur and leather.
Her voice rouses us from sleep every time,
knives to our eardrums,
until we issue an ultimatum
that finally evicts them from our slumber.