Elegy for Sleep
       

You are the salty skin
of my childhood love slipping
out my bedroom window;
the eggs my mother fries
before she leaves for her night shift,
the creak of my father's footsteps.
Sleep, without you, my mind
is a car door slammed hard,
my eyes, two wet towels,
my mouth, a rope
words cannot walk straight on.
Sleep, meet me
on the flight to Paris.
Meet me on the Santa Monica beach,
sand sliding between my toes.
Meet me on the train to Seattle,
in the stiff sheets of the hotel room in Victoria,
my old stucco apartment, this wood floor.
I won't talk about the time
I went without you for five days.
Won't bring up Lunesta or Ambien.
Won't drink too many margaritas
you can lick the salt from my lips.
I'll bathe myself in chamomile
and spread lavender lotion on my legs.
Sleep, seduce me: whisper in my ear.
Slide my face into this pillow.
Squeeze my wrists and tell me
I'm going nowhere. Tell me
I'll obey you. Tell me
I've got something coming.

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Copyright © 2017 Chrys Tobey All rights reserved
from A Woman is a Woman is a Woman is a Woman
Steel Toe Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission