I lay beside you
because it's expected
because you've stayed up with me
through the frigid hours of night
until not going to bed
becomes suspicious
something we must talk to death
until I'm sick of our voices
and the dizzy hum of my body
and I think
Maybe,
just maybe, I can sleep
In bed, at last
your body quickly finds the fading rhythm
the intersection between here and there
You stop talking, your hand
stills on my thigh, your arm
around my waist becomes an anchor
as you catch the bus to your dreams
pulling away from the curb without a backward look
while I grit my teeth
and listen to you breathe music:
andante
adagio
ritardando
allargando
I am angry I am not angry
I am angry I am not angry
I must warn you:
in this current state of mind
I am blind to all but red
and your deep baritone blues are dissonant
Hundreds of red ants
scurry through my mind leaving raised welts
on unguarded thoughts
hundreds more
travel down the blood wires
into my feet, my hands,
my crimson belly
Knowing that my perception is off
that only a poem
will allow me to make light of this madness
I ask forgiveness of my
tortured skin and muscles and
promise to light a candle
to St. Rita of Cascia,
the patroness of impossible poets,
in exchange for an hour of sleep and
your understanding.
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