To sleep in a bed alone after five
Years of marriage is a practice in
Restraint. Pillows like the spines of leaves still
clinging to the branch, the sway of wind that
tries to knock them loose, or more like doesn’t
try at all, just moves and things blow apart.
I’m trying not to love the room too much,
The lamplight, mattress leaning to the right
the blankets wrapped around my selfish legs,
The smell of soap and mint and spacious thoughts
And no cry from my daughter’s crib to jar
Me from my dreams. My thoughts taste of lemon
Blossoms, and I see the way that sleep
Comes best to outliers: the fallen branch, the stone.