In the dank echo of the night
this mother will soothe away
night terrors: terrible krakens
rising from the depths of
synapse and bone and
hot chocolate.

Yet still midnight slithers on and
my pages are filled with nothing -
the rarest flutter of breath
in that space between the neck
and the shoulder
and lace.

You come to me, husband,
in this squall of isolation
with your bible of body;
fingers like tentacles wrapping
around my skin, a wave of murmur
telling me there is no time,
there is no poetry.

10/19/2009

Posted on 03/28/2010
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