February 15, 2012: Sleep, cont. CWE 136

She falls asleep in fuming fits,
a toddler at the crib rail
with sweaty cowlicks and
a pleated brow. She turns
back and forth in bed like the
pages of a book. Twisting
the sheets into a pulpy
pile, she builds a nest and
falls asleep like a worn out
pill bug, curled tight.

When I poke her sleeping hip,
which I often do,
her eyelashes prick the
air like a set of antennae.
She ice skates in her sleep.
Her wrist quivers like a pair
of insect wings, her fingers tap out
a small song. Her thin body is
bent at the joints like a
discarded marionette.
Knees to shoulders,
elbows to ankles.


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