lindsay zier-vogel

Morning list

- wake
- open eyelashes, eyes
- let window in
- uncurl hands, fingers one at a time
- count them, 1 to 5
- and again
- untangle sheets from knots
- unfold legs from his
- re-knot sheets round him sleeping
- kiss fingers 1 to 5 (his)
- sit
- slip feet over wooden edge, touch floor
- blink, blink
- slip off sleep from shoulders
- stretch dream from shoulder blades
- leave nakedness on windowsill

Re-learning

She had to re-learn to walk,
quickly learning to angle herself into wind,
pressing her thin body forwards;
she began to trust the thick push of air against her chest,
the air that kept her upright,
kept her tilted body from falling.

She had to re-learn how to sleep.
learning the hot skin of her sleeping husband,
("husband", a curious word she rolled over and over in her un-sleeping mouth)
learning the permanent half-wake of sleeping beside an almost-stranger,
learning to angle her thin body in the empty spaces of mattress
and angle her mind to quiet.

(She also taught herself to speak again,
learning to form her words around a mouthful of dust,
teaching herself to speak with a dry swollen tongue).

poetry by lindsay zier-vogel


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