Love Poem

By Lynn Wilcox

You are tired. You sweat from your eyes

while slumber makes your breath

a whistle, I brought you here, my restless

traveler, under sterile light, in hotel

bathrooms, on cold porcelain, my sole

splits. I cry out, but your mind is far

away, reaching for some immaterial

idyll. Silence enters through the

window and I want for you to listen, 

so I steal a moment from your

slumber, unconscious, allowed. 

I go to sleep with a dirty mouth 

and unquiet mind. Too early. 

You woke me up like always, 

like I’m your baby, I had a bad

dream. You say, I’m sorry, 

and in the weary morning, I tell

stories of the melon I grew in my

stomach, and my flight over the

highway 

which teaches me the way home 

is your ragged lunar lullaby.