Bedding

He comes to righteous rigid
that he was not snoring all his knowledge
of the hours I spend lying at his side
gathered in the moments
it takes him to fall asleep
he knows how my legs twitch
as I unbend not making grasshopper bounds
not making music to attract him but jerking me out
of the lazy esses the warm loops of limbs
he prefers as he sibiliates towards sleep
his soft lips on my ear

He knows how we go rocking
and aching into sleep but he has no idea
that I am his axis that I make him rotate
until his back throat black hole
is as far away from me as I can get it
so my toes can stretch towards the cold reaches
of the bed instead of the hot flare
of his instep

He comes to my elbow like a thorn
in his side murmurs that our daughter
unborn unconceived has been running into traffic
again how the cars narrowly missed her
this time
and turns towards me with a snore
so soft all my curves go flat


* * *

M. and I recently celebrated our 6th anniversary and I am only beginning to be satisfied by the love poems I write him. There's something I like about this one, though M. only sighed that I've written about his snoring, again...

He also denied that he'd ever dreamed of a daughter, which fits in so nicely with the poem that I burst into laughter.

Whaaat? he said.