A poem, that's what.
Here's the poem I wrote today for my writing group (they gave me some feedback that I'm still mulling over).
I dreamed I washed my hair in ash.
I woke at vigil to a forgotten light.
The dog lay at the open door,
where the air spoke from the trees.
Nothing—no intruder, no late child.
I lay down to the music of that hour,
fan ticking overhead
in an unnoted rhythm, crickets surging,
last or first highway cars.
I dreamed I wore the white dress,
my lap embroidered in fig leaves
where I held the book of my beseeching.
The wood smelled of stain and varnish.
This is my prayer: the curtains
at the window breathe.
A spirit caught between out and in.
At lauds I bathed, dried my skin
with a white towel, dressed
in the clothes I had prepared.
I waited in gray light
for my daughter to arise.
My belly an ache of knots,
hands unlaced, fans crossed there
lightly, as if holding the ache
would ease it: the porch light burnt out,
the street dark as if it might stay dark all day.