Apricot Press

This is only the beginning, if that,
and though I told you to go to sleep,
you lay in the dark, your face the pale blue
of your phone screen. You’re blinded
from my gaze, but I can’t stop watching you
like a blue star in the bedroom sky,
a nameless nebula deep inside you
swirling, pulsing, straining for life.
As sleep brushes through my hair, I know
you’re counting seconds, the pressure
of imminent life rippling through you,
but your face is still, a constellation
pressed against the fabric of the night.

In the dream it was over, or on the way
to over, but I had to get up and get the kids
ready for the day. When I left, the car
engine ground new dry gears under the hood.
The sun was a patch of painted concrete.
Some unseen pebble gnawed at the tip
of my toe in my sock. The cold March air
snipped at my ribs and ankles.
There was something about strangers’ eyes.
This was a day where it was over, or on the way
to over, where all the wood was made of fists,
but then you awoke, texting me something
about dinner tonight, could I pick up
that thing we forgot, that ingredient
that brings the whole dish together,
that brings the whole night together,
and I realized that nothing was over yet
except the dream.

Photo credit: SHVETSproduction