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 mandalaIn 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,
recasts itself, but the nucleus remains,
awake, the imperfection
in the family isha.
awake, the imperfection
in the family isha.
by Chris Fow Cohen
Shared with the author's permission
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