he can be one way in the day time one way in the night he calls sometimes in his
sleep a slick and unctuous cry that begs and begs then pleads and pleads at first
forgive and then forget he dreams and sweats until the bed is wet and all the sheets
are tangling snagging wrapping mummifying memory embalming them in
misery it must be misery he can be one way in the day time one way in the night
they never talk they haven’t talked since he got home why talk it’s done it’s over
now there’s nothing to talk about he walks away and flicks his cigarette into the
garden where she’s growing herbs down on her knees in dew cool mornings she
flicks off the caterpillars with her fingers gathers up the butts once she placed one in
her mouth just to feel the place where his lips had been he can be one way in the day
time one way in the night always suspicious never quite at sleep only in dream or
nightmare more often some awful thought mutating in his mind and she can feel it
seeping from his sweaty skin his kicking limbs she’s pushed up all the way to the edge
of the bed when he’s dreaming once he woke up with his hands on her neck hands around
her throat he can be one way in the day time one way in the night he calls
sometimes in his sleep he dreams and sweats until the bed is wet
