by Wren Calloway
I used to draw the map with more on it— the house would be bigger, the job would have a window,
The earth is trying something underneath— you feel it in the softness of the ground, a stirring, like a sleeper holding breath
When I was young, the afternoons were countries with no border known, and summer hummed its lazy tunes
The house at three a.m. becomes a throat that hums with all the things we didn't say, and I lie still as someone in a boat
O body, you magnificent disaster, you creak now getting out of chairs and take the stairs a half-beat slower
I woke before you and did nothing about it. The radiator ticked. Your shoulder rose and fell.