I raise my knee, curious,
gaze at muscular lines, or are they bone?
Sluggish with sleep, my brain will not compute,
but it’s not hard to believe. It’s one in the morning;
I have fallen to dream, feet up on the coffee table
where I placed the popcorn after a few nibbles.
The wall checkers in front of bleary eyes,
fingers comb hair, stiff as knives serrated.
Running hands past jugular to rest on my chest,
I remember my dream, bacon grease burning, smoke filled kitchen
setting off smoke alarms, waking me to startled silence.
I spread my arms across the couch,
stretch, hold them in place as if crucified.
Forsaken in the darkness by cats and husband
who moved upstairs to bed hours ago while I snored
in front of rainbow bars of post late night TV.