comfort blanket

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.


One thought on “comfort blanket

  1. This is an edgy, honest poem that doesn’t fit comfortably into my life. That’s why I’m grateful for it… reminds me very much of my past. I’ve thought this in the last few years: I wish I’d written more than I did, and with much more grit and abandon. I think I always expected that I’d be able to get it all down “later.” But it would only be recollection and probably laced with sentimentality that wouldn’t work at all. This poem of yours, you can smell the room it’s so present.

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