She had hit her forehead on the fridge handle and opened a vein. I cleaned her up.
On the chancel stairs at the end of service, she asked, why do I live like this?
She jumped from the car on the turnpike and ran into oncoming traffic. Three drivers
veered to miss her.
We were almost back to normal, eating Spam omelets on the newly-painted porch,
the smell of talc and mica mildly pleasant. She scraped hers into a potted plant.
Anyone can make this fucking dish.
They tell me, Go to sleep. If they love me
they say, Go to sleep until I am a wide plain.
Go to sleep. Until the oh’s are ironed into ah’s.
Go to sleep, they say until I am a blue horizon.
Sleep until the milk is legend, left to wash feet
in the morning. Legend stops the rot of people.
There is no big bright word for leaving.
There is no rest so pained as I am pained by rest.
Sleep like a good, sharp knife.
Photo by Chris Liu-Beers