Monday, March 14, 2011



There’s a dark room you will find

her, push past fur-lined shrouds draped

over raven discs until your mind

yawns you inside its wardrobed throat.

She slumbers on your bed.

You are your own child struck blind

within your childhood room, she

lays supine, her ears knifed out by

thoughts that grind upon the words

you wish you would have said.

So do not think thoughts’ groping whine,

whispered demands for her to Come! Sit

and wait, for stillness is a sleeper’s rind

that suffocates the grown-up tongue

still breathing in your head.

When you forget her, she’ll come behind

and place her tiny hands in the sockets

of your empty eyes and sign (into being)

rushing waters of the Lethe

in languages now dead.

This poem is dedicated to Karen, who inspired me to think about what happens on the cusp of sleep and the task of surrendering our worded burdens.

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