I hope you won’t mind when I unzip
your body and crawl inside. I promise
to be quiet and gentle around your vena
cava, settling into your cavity like one
of the cats, so you’ll barely know I’m there.
I’m not trying to crowd you or codepend:
I just can’t bear the insomnia any longer, staring
at my eyelids minute after minute, all I can see
are circles, rotating halos when I try to sleep,
I just feel so dizzy and yearn for your respirations.
And, don’t worry: I have washed the remnant glue
globbing my hair from the sleep study’s electrodes,
and I will not overperfume, plus my stay can be
temporary, just a night if you don’t mind, and go
ahead and snore. Your heartbeat’s white noise
will drift me until dawn’s sunlight shards the comforter,
and I unlid, uncurl, unzip, unyawn—spinning, cartoon
bluebirds singing me into the kitchen to start coffee.
Amy Lerman was born and raised on Miami Beach, moved to the Midwest for many years, and now lives with her husband and very spoiled cats in the Arizona desert, where she is residential English Faculty at Mesa Community College. She received her Master’s and Ph.D. in American Literature from the University of Kansas, and her poems have appeared in Rattle, Smartish Pace, Common Ground Review, Prime Number Magazine, Solstice, and other publications.