Tagged: the Sleep

Why Don’t You Say My Name as Much Anymore

my parents would say Terri – I mean your mother
or David – I mean your father

as if I wouldn’t know who they meant. Or like
they were each hiding some Terris or Davids

we weren’t supposed to know about. I never really
suspected, but I would listen sometimes

put a cup to the wall in my closet
that connected to their bathroom

I’d listen to my mother and father spending time
with Terri and David – coordinating spits

in their sinks – starting the shower for the other –
flushing the toilet. sometimes I’d hear the long lighter

snapping its fingers at the candle. sometimes
I’d hear the tub water. they’d say their lover’s name

– serious business in the house that holds
their children. they must have been in on it together

sometimes I’d fall asleep in the closet listening
my nicer pants and things hanging close to my face

curled up against bags with my name
adorned on them, a clear cup along the carpet

Fell Asleep Watching Planet Earth

I see with light that is shoved
on trays beneath my eyelids
Yellow kernels of hominy
Their fuzzy skins

I must be awake
A wake is the tower of dirt
behind a herd
of grazing animals

Consider those long, sweeping
Planet Earth shots
above our traffic. People
undulating toward places

they don’t want to go. Like
gazelles nearing water
They can’t get us all
if we all go at once

90% of the Forest Will Go

I slept the whole night
on a lighter and two bottlecaps. I didn’t notice
until almost work when I undid my sight for the mirror, saw
their indentions leaving more than the usual amount
of slots on me

for unnecessary attachments. My eyes go here
I say, my lids peel off
like sheets
pulled abruptly from the bed
of an old couple, who hurt to see each another
then into the world, into slightly larger rings

around their comfort. Their life
is so precise, you can count up to its death