Kyla Pasha | Poetry

I slept at the foot of the bed
every night for forty years and I thought
this would end it – rapture
would lift us, move us and
we’d entwine. We entwined
but rapture bled us dry and now
the dogs bay; and we
are sanguine. What light
falls on us feeds us up
to the cameras, to the barrels
of guns glinting, to our
angels, better and worse;
and love is nearly insufficient cover
on darker nights. We entwine.
You turn over and breathe
evenly. I write poems.
I pray for stories. I listen.
5:55 on a Monday morning
and every night for forty
years, I listen for the covers
pulling back. Where my unhatched
children, too, breathe evenly.
I am sanguine.

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