HERS IS a PLEA for NOTHINGNESS
No, not even dreams. Relentless,
thoughts – both somber and trivial –
carry her away
to before, to after, never still here
on these sheets, under this quilt.
Restless as a small boat lost
in choppy waters. Utterly lonely.
How much time has passed, how many
hours left to sleep? Hands spin
round a Dali-drooped clock face,
with no audible clicks. How she dreads
another day of dragging fatigue.
Finally, she nudges her husband
to roll on his side, holds onto him
as if he were a timber
splintered from that wrecked boat.
Maybe he can keep her afloat,
his rhythm rock and croon her.
But sharks circle. Time, like water,
has run out. Giving up, she rises,
Sunlight steals through the blinds.