Sleeping with storms

You are
tongue tsk-tsking like unexpected rainfall
on a metal roof
sighing and grunting, rolling,
arms out in awkward angles
cracking displaced shoulders,
a loud and somewhat unsettling
sound, like lightning
and your low, rumbling snores
first quiet and slow,
are now crescendoing into
an angry fight for breath,
a manifesto
for the right
to live through the night.

And I am
reminded of evening tempests
from humid childhood summers,
tucked into darkness with too-hot covers,
listening to the nightly cacophony
turned lullaby
of anxious heat
returning to its forgiving earth,
the two reunited,
safe
and loved
and loving
and together in the storm.

You are
facing away from me
so I drape an arm around you
and you turn,
your breathing returns to normal
as you pull me close
into you

And we fall
soundly
back to sleep.

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she never sleeps

she never sleeps.

because of her anxiety
because she’s worried
about things like
the great pacific
garbage patch, or
if she locked the door,
or microagressions,
or heteronormativity,
or other multisyllabic concerns.

instead she stays up,
and strums a guitar,
and reads books
too difficult for me,
filling her head
with more words
and more syllables
to worry about.

she never sleeps,
but she’s often there
in the foggy reality
of my mid-morning dreams,
showing up somewhere
around the fifth REM cycle,
with her furrowed brow and
guitar-strumming fingers,
teaching me new things
from her old dictionary.

so I try to sleep.

I try to sleep.