I know what you do
when the light at the back of your skull
reaches for a frightening shape.
I have been there mornings,
evenings, even: the wall
that you press your spine against,
the arm that you tug like rope
and toss away again
when it grasps too tightly.
Still, I would not say that I know you,
or that scar tissue and semen
are a comfortable hammock to rest in,
no matter how your tossing and turning
creates a pleasant rhythm
that I don’t mind sharing, for now.