Disordered

I was born into a family of sleep disorders.

Narcolepsy father,
insomnia mother,
a night terror brother
and a few sleep apnea grandparents.

Some nights, I feel weights
        pressing down on my skin, unbearable
and iron bars, locking my joints
        tight as deadbolts.

Sleep paralysis, or maybe I'm just afraid

                as anyone would be.

Last Night

Last night I dreamt
that you loved another,
laughingly,
and wished that you had never come home
so that I wouldn't have had
to witness it.

Last night
my heart stretched across
        empty spaces
across oceans and continents
(and the tiny gaps between letters and words)
as new snow fell and hands searched
        in the cold
never finding quite
        what they were looking for.

Last night
alone, or just without you,
        I wandered
until eyes became sore
and legs grew stiff with trying,
and still awoke in sunlight
wanting only
        to see you.

Quiet

Quiet now,
before time pulls ends together,
brings minds past words
and bodies into arms into bodies.

Quiet,
to leave small spaces open,
in case someday
you might like
to fill them.

Wrapt in My Heart, the Library

I opened my eyes and found you there,
found you watching, playing with words, making small gifts
and demanding nothing in return.

For you, then, my heart.
Its volumes, its verses, its worn and weathered shelves
Its spines that crack,
its pages that rip.

For you, so that you may
take small parts of me away,
but always bring them back
in due time.

Cherry Jam

With the lingering flavor of
something old and familiar on my tongue,
I traveled to your home,
intent to shatter all your windows,
should I find them open, or clean.

Je t'aime, je t'aime
you repeated so many times
as you pulled me along,
pulled me across seas and nations.

And I knew the words, knew them well
        but I did not know the language.

And who was I
to perch on the steps of a home
with ivy on the walls
and lavender growing in the garden
and take artful photographs of snails
with yellow shells?

And who was I
to fill my lungs
with air spun from the peaks of the alps
and sigh as if I found it all
quite banal?

Bienvenue, she said, come in,
        we're making cherry jam.

And who was I, who was I,
to drop my bags
and say "alright,"
and lend her my hands,
staining tired young fingers blood red
as I pulled out each pit
        and tossed it aside.