Sleep: A Report
Oh, elusive lullaby of the body,
porthole into the brain’s watery depths,
last night you had me fretting
over deadlines again—
deadlines, what a term
to carry with us as we wade
through our days without the soft
clutch of our beds,
a bullseye of panic
pinned to our to-do lists,
a grim nod to our buttercup-
dusted mortality.
Other nights, empty rooms
buoy up inside of me,
and I find myself organizing
a literary event, where each guest
must present a hardboiled egg to enter.
Who the featured speaker is,
is never mentioned. My dreams
decidedly weak on backstory
and event planning. Despite
the muddy fields that I half-remember
upon waking, and the snow
in a country I’ve not seen
for years, despite the dead
talking to me with teacups
in their hands, sleep,
you are a crawl space
my body finds each night,
and, together, we dig and dig
past gravity and the need for doors
to have hinges, into what the body carries
with or without our permission.