Now I Lay Me

In the night, I watch your jaws
begin to clench and move;
clench, relax. Some
nights, you
open up your mouth
and chew. I ask

about your dreams; you never mention
eating. In

the cafe, while
you read the Sunday comics, little muscles
in your face begin to dance. You

are not forming words; the
outlines, the pieces
on your lips, on
your brow, on your chin. I

at the rain. I stare at a physicist,
walking. I stifle
my small
talk, and stare. You read; he
clutches his sheaf of scribble. Your fingers

are small. They smell of ink
and pulp and bleach and crabs. You
do not catch me staring. The

of your egg begins to grow a skin.

Later, in the car,
you fall asleep--your jaw
is slack. You chew. I
turn my eyes from the road.
It is raining hard.
When I touch your leg, you stir
but do not wake.

Later, I turn down the heat.
We knot
in our sleep. You ask
about my dreams.

JDP 2000/01

Copyright John D Porter © 2000

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