"What was your name again? When did your chair get so close?"
The voice of all tired women in bars with no close.
His eyes found the checkered tile of the bathroom ceiling.
It's hot enough tonight, he muses, to forego clothes.
God, why did you deign to teach me the tongues of angels
When my weight of sin wouldn't let them dare to go close?
Counting Games: Sabbath is Seven. Victory. Seven.
Freedom. Seven. (She clenches her eyes, sleep is so close).
He traded baseball cards for a new glove, forgetting
The shears. The tangles of briar beyond the fence grow close.
There is no sleeping here. No sheep to corral tonight.
What hope is there without counting? The night knows no close.
"When will you learn?" mother laments, brushing my wild hair.
Like I'd care for style in treetops where the wind blows close.
Again: Sin. Three. Hell. Four. Shame. Five. Submit. Six. Slumber.
Seven. Restful. Seven. Sarah. Two away-- so close.
© Sarah Fletcher, 2014
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| "Complications of Insomnia" Mikael Haggstrom from "Medical gallery of Mikael Haggstrom Wikimedia Commons |
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