Lullaby-

Icons flock my dreams,
grazings of memory with eyes
that pool and dry
like fading chords:
Philip's warms chest surfaces against mine,
sheltering voice and lips on my shoulder;
owls in bathtubs,
claw-footed porcelain vessels,
coppered eyes and talons ruffled
into my arm.

This is why I do not like sleep;
it takes and presses like a murderer
through concious moments
with desire
for gritty foam on feet,
with fear
of being voiceless.
Sleep denies my reality;
plagues of need scrape my lips at night,
moans heard by curtains,
gauzy sounds
from batallions of lost conversations.

Each day opens
with longing for the night.

There, terrors were bred to my taste.
There, Philip holds me on streets,
my forehead dipping
to his murmurs.
There, Beverley and I sleep
under the winter mimosa,
wombing each other
as branches web the scrim of stars.

Not allowed to leave,
I wake, wrestling
with unattainable images of comfort
and Ithaca's April snows.




GLS
4.2.91