We’re falling asleep
side by side.
I can touch
his lower back,
silky and broad
across ligaments,
a back that bears
weight most days,
mowing, carting
centimeters of century.
I’ve watched him
haul lumber through
my sister’s backyard,
jam box springs
up too-narrow steps,
and now, even in sleep
his back spasming,
tensing mid-dream,
anonymous arrhythmia...
My own papery hand
squares a patch of back,
quilting, framing
memory. Twenty years
spooning and sprawling!
Funny we land like this —
two un-done bodies,
aligned, parallel, imperfect,
snuggled, singular.
There must be
a clearer definition
for this existence:
Synchrosoft.
Flashfused.
Sleepswept.
Look, love,
how we’ve become
soft, spread out,
in these earthly bodies,
aging in this world
without choice
but with life,
spooning, clung
together
Written beside “Heavenly Bodies” by Alison Luterman
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