The sky grows heavy with ink,
and suddenly every thought
I buried in daylight
claws its way back,
hungry for a voice.
Crickets keep time
like broken clocks.
Wind whistles
through trees like
an unlatched kettle.
I sit on the edge of the bed,
listening to the house settle;
old bones clicking,
old grief walking,
old stories pacing the hallway
like a restless animal.
There are walls here
that know exactly
what I’ve survived.
They creak differently
when I pass.
Night holds it all—
the ache, the after, the almost.
No witness, but the dark.
No mercy, but the moon.
May Garner (@crimson.hands) is an author and poet residing in rural Ohio. She has been writing for nearly fifteen years and has been sharing her writing online for over a decade. She is the author of two poetry collections, Withered Rising (2023) and Melancholic Muse (2025). Her work has appeared in Querencia Press, Cozy Ink Press, Arcana Poetry Press, Livina Press, and Speckled Trout Review, among others.