Is it strange that being alone in bed is such a relief?
Weight lifted when empty sheets wait.
The clock just mine to watch and set
The light just mine to kill.
I want to be selfish this time and hold solitude as my own.
I know these pages are tired
And yawn in quilt
mother fingers working squares to shield me in heat.
Perhaps I neglect them with my scribblings
Perhaps it is not my language.
We sleep together nonetheless.
By Esme Garlake