Sunday, April 9, 2017

The Art of Sleep • National Poetry Month

The Art of Sleep

In the crowded bed, hemmed in by
my husband, his hand resting
on my hip, his fingers softly flexing
in slumber, you’re here, I’m here.
When he moves, he takes the blankets,
but not my personal Patience
and Fortitude, tails draped across
my legs. Sighing, shifting, stretching,
pressing, calescent, discouraging
desertion. In repose,
the nighttime mandala
recasts itself, but the nucleus remains,
awake, the imperfection
in the family isha.

by Chris Fow Cohen
Shared with the author's permission

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