July 16, 2009


Your fear of insomnia lead,
for the first night at least, you to my bed.

That night—
after the lights were out, I heard you
in the bathroom, brushing you teeth for the third time.
I didn’t hear your soft padding across the hall,
but knew the squeak of the hinge, a gentle
whisper at my feet was something new.

That night—
A quite conversation
and our first kiss, together or apart,
was a new sensation –
your tongue warm clumsy meat in my mouth –
meat I could not, should not chew. I pulled
my eager body close to you.
You pulled away, wary of the cat’s gaze.

That night—
Holding you close as you faded
into darkness I smelt the alcohol residue of cheap
hair products. Loose strands found my smile
as I palmed your youthful breast.

But Now—
In almost the same position, nested like Russian
stacking dolls, there is no sleep.
My hand rests lower, on your stomach. Here,
I fell the faint heartbeat of creation.

It is no longer the insomnia I fear,
and if I weren’t laying on my other arm,
I’d bow my head in prayer.