Watch the god Hypnos meet the Mother in a coffeehouse.
He, in dapper clothes the color of oblivion and clouds.
She, ragged, wearing a worn number from two days prior, milk-stained and smelling sour. She cradles a cup of coffee, lets it warm her hands until they regain color.
“Why don’t you call on me,” the god asks.
Listen to his voice, a purr, a song. Watch how the Mother nearly wilts to sleep then and there.
“I cannot,” she sighs.
Read it in Gone Lawn