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Posts Tagged ‘sleep’

One Resistance

 

 

even as my eyes close

some voice in me insisting

I’m awake, I’m awake

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Forgiveness 101

 

 

The first person I forgive today is myself

for staying up too late last night—how

I loved reading into the late hours, the story

 

crooking its finger at me, tethering me

to its pages. What good does it do

to call myself stupid, to lash out at the part of me

 

who thrives on those slender moments

when I am alone and the house is quiet

and I am the sister of words. No, better to tell

 

that late night reader that I’m tired.

Better to smile at her, though she thwarts

the morning me who loves to rise feeling rested.

 

She does not apologize. I know I will have

to forgive her again. Somehow, when I start

with myself, it makes it easier all day long

 

to practice forgiveness for others—

the slow drivers, the complainers, the bullies,

the pouters. They probably have happier,

 

calmer, more rational selves, too,

that they are also thwarting. All day I practice seeing

the heart of a person. All day, when I yawn, I smile.

 

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That bed looks so great.

There is nothing right now

she needs to do but slip

between those soft blue sheets

and close her eyes.

She has no words that must be written,

no lessons to plan, no bills to pay,

no conversations to have.

She is tired, and she deserves to sleep

right now. She doesn’t worry for an instant

that there will be consequences.

She looks out the window

at the light across the street,

sees the silhouette of the woman

who lives there as she

fusses and rushes and hunches over her desk.

What could be more important

than dreams. Whatever needs be done,

tomorrow is soon enough.

 

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I like my body in the mornings
when the light has not yet stolen the room,
and when you, in darkness, turn your length
toward my length and bend your body
to match the curve of my spine.

I like the warmth our bodies find,
I like your legs bowed into mine,
your feet like a tangle of roots about my feet.

I like my neck when it’s touched by your breath,
and I like my waist when your hand rests there.
And my belly, I like how soft it is, like sweet dough rising.

So tender, this drowsy, dreamy, yielding state
when we are more flesh than name, more limb than thought,
more breath than what we know.

And the darkness holds us quietly,
your body, my body, oh how we linger,
indulgent, our boundaries blurred,
while all around us, even inside us,
the world with its edges and certainties
begins to dawn.

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Sometimes a Chance

Laying beside
someone asleep,
listen to their tide
of breath. They
are like shells
held to your ear,
reminding you
how we come
from the sea.
Put up your sails
and travel here
in the morning’s
small dark hours.
Never mind you can’t
read the currents.
Never mind you
can’t remember
your name or how
you got here,
how to get home
or why you came.
There are no
anchors. No
horizons. The
waves are never
quite the same.

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