Close Sleeping
But if we sleep this close, tangled in our Friday night lavender
sheets, our cold ashy feet will meet
and I will have to turn over on my back, split my stick-legs
like scissors.
But if we sleep this close, the sharp bones of our ankles
will rub together the way two pennies do when you have it—
reminding me of that afternoon
when we first met
at that bank on Wintonbury Avenue—cashing in
our pennies, our we-need-bread-&-eggs-&-milk pennies. But
if we sleep this close, that Murray’s Superior Hair Dressing Pomade
will push full into the cool blacks of my nostrils
and it will get me to thinking back to our wedding day
and how my two-year-old black dress from Nadine’s Dress Shoppe
and your wrinkled suit from Sage Allen’s didn’t matter
and how that Pomade, all caked in your hair, made it wavy overnight
and how my belly poked loudly through
my 99 cent nylons,
my dress.
And the heavier my breasts became and the rounder my belly got
the more your “you-know-I-care-’bout-you-Sarah-Nell” kind of love
grew.
In that beer stained booth, in the cramped corner
of Maybelle’s Restaurant, by the broke jukebox
was our reception—
just us two, a large cheese pizza, onion rings, cheesecake
New York style, and a gang of Italian men,
from Boston, packed like roaches in the booth behind us
cutting off their R’s. But
if we sleep this close, my fingers will creep up
your back until you move, curl up
like our baby boy; this is when I will pull
my fingers quickly away,
let you think it is a corner of sheet;
a fly.
But if we sleep this close, tangled in our Saturday morning lavender
sheets, my big toe will linger
too long against the soles of your feet
and I may have to
unlearn what grandma taught and climb on top—
taking,
snatching,
stealing
my sugar.
sheets, our cold ashy feet will meet
and I will have to turn over on my back, split my stick-legs
like scissors.
But if we sleep this close, the sharp bones of our ankles
will rub together the way two pennies do when you have it—
reminding me of that afternoon
when we first met
at that bank on Wintonbury Avenue—cashing in
our pennies, our we-need-bread-&-eggs-&-milk pennies. But
if we sleep this close, that Murray’s Superior Hair Dressing Pomade
will push full into the cool blacks of my nostrils
and it will get me to thinking back to our wedding day
and how my two-year-old black dress from Nadine’s Dress Shoppe
and your wrinkled suit from Sage Allen’s didn’t matter
and how that Pomade, all caked in your hair, made it wavy overnight
and how my belly poked loudly through
my 99 cent nylons,
my dress.
And the heavier my breasts became and the rounder my belly got
the more your “you-know-I-care-’bout-you-Sarah-Nell” kind of love
grew.
In that beer stained booth, in the cramped corner
of Maybelle’s Restaurant, by the broke jukebox
was our reception—
just us two, a large cheese pizza, onion rings, cheesecake
New York style, and a gang of Italian men,
from Boston, packed like roaches in the booth behind us
cutting off their R’s. But
if we sleep this close, my fingers will creep up
your back until you move, curl up
like our baby boy; this is when I will pull
my fingers quickly away,
let you think it is a corner of sheet;
a fly.
But if we sleep this close, tangled in our Saturday morning lavender
sheets, my big toe will linger
too long against the soles of your feet
and I may have to
unlearn what grandma taught and climb on top—
taking,
snatching,
stealing
my sugar.
This. Is. BEAUTIFUL. I really really love it. It sorta gives me a glassy eye and I don't know why. I guess the way you describe the circumstances of your wedding and reception makes me miss mine. I can feel...everything as you tell it. The dam of apprehension trying it's damndest not to give way to the flood of lustful lovin'. I can really dig this and I love it almost TOO much. This is great...I cant say enough...I could go on and on. Thank you for this. It made my day!
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