Daystar by Rita Dove

Daystar

She wanted a little room for thinking: 

but she saw diapers steaming on the line,

a doll slumped behind the door.

So she lugged a chair behind the garage 

to sit out the children’s naps.

Sometimes there were things to watch: 

the pinched armor of a vanished cricket,

a floating maple leaf. Other days 

she stared until she was assured 

when she closed her eyes
she’d see only her vivid own blood.

She had an hour, at best, before Liza appeared 

pouting from the top of the stairs.

And just what was mother doing 

out back with the field mice? Why, 

building a palace. Later

that night when Thomas rolled over and 

lurched into her, she would open her eyes 

and think of the place that was hers 

for an hour — where 

she was nothing, 

pure nothing, in the middle of the day.