Sunday, November 13

For the insomniac

by Michelle Boisseau

These sibilants aren't the right sound
for it, nor the loosening sonorants

of insomnia. The body
doesn't relinquish the day, hissing

as it gives itself over, breath
by deeper breath. Though you wander

the weird factory for hours,
you don't get lost, drop off somewhere

so you can find yourself at dawn
floating back into your bed

like a scarf. Without sleep, morning
is no surprise. You've watched it assemble,

the day already old when you kick
the blanket off. You're the same except

giving the drapery a jerk, how skittery you are.
Awake all night means, once again,

you left everything wide open.
Look around your feet. Marbles clacking

in a box, the room has filled with grackles.
Their tin feet scritch across the floor.

Because you would not sleep, you asked for it.
They fix you with yellow eyes.

Their whir and chack make sense to you.

From The Extraordinary Tide


Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home