Grave

What I’m Talking About When I Talk About Home

The neighbor’s water sprinklers go off synched

to my bladder at four am and I muscle

memory my uncounted steps from four-

blanket cocoon to streetlamp-lit bathroom 

as mattress-groans signal my partner turns

in preparation anticipation expectation to

pull me in when I sink back under the weight

of blankets of limbs tangling in wordless

snooze button dialogue not yet, soon, just 

one more minute one more hour

warm whistled air in my ear almost-day 

dreams skipping just under the surface 

of awareness of arousal hands alarm-

clocking their slow way over hip and breast

before the pulse of traffic the garbage truck 

the neighbor’s garage 

the alarm 

the sunlight 

the to-do list

the day pulls me away.

~~~

Sforzando Adagio

because you could once answer questions while peeling an apple while making a mental list you’d remember when at the store while on the phone with the friend whose brother’s neighbor’s son you once envied because he’d smiled at a flower with the sweet joy of happy innocence, of infancy although he was full grown.

because now you can only answer a question if you close your eyes to better see to chase shadows of thoughts, fish mental notes ripped and crumbled from lost and found bins, but you no longer envy the young man whose name you forget for you’ve mastered the art of ants and flower caterpillar butterflies     life.

~~~

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