Different Words for Sleep
by Michelle Gottschlich
Once, in winter, I read a sign that said
the history of the earth is long and cyclical.
But all I remember: spring, sun in the bed.
Your eye—green and gold spun—just
opening. And the hole that appeared there
suddenly, like a den in the grass
well-hidden. My thirtieth year arrives—
a record that keeps skipping.
Wrinkles ripple across my face
in imperfect concentric circles.
When you left, I didn’t know
what to do with my body —
its awkward, bearable heft.
I go to bed, I go back.
—
I read this land was once untenable.
Someone set upon it, drew an imaginary line
through the marshland. The king sent poor men
to manage it, speak its new name, drain
the bogs, and shear the forests. Then one day:
a black train chuffing. Then, overhead
a canvas biplane — a silver 747
small town could fit in. Ben—
you arrive now, having traveled a long way
through a cloud. Behind you: California.
Below you: abstracted trees, perfectly square fields.
Between the sky and landscape, stormed by clouds:
a string of smoke. It’s true, I was the first
to set upon you. It was summer
—
I took your hand, carved a line across
the bar, through bodies swaying like trees.
We were between sky and landscape, then
in bed. I pointed to my body, redrawing lines:
You can touch me here. Can I cross you there?
No one, but us. You reached under
the hem-line — this can’t be real —
You arrive as if through a dream.
It’s morning time to me. California —
Glassell Park — your crowded apartment
complex. Across the street: Forest Lawn
where Walt Disney was laid to rest,
a thousand pilgrims grieving at his garden
plot. The grass, unconscionably green.
—
For weeks I carry you with me,
in my phone, your name in my palm
like an icon. You tell me about your day,
your voice arriving through clouds
and different words for sleep. Just ask me—
and I will give you synonyms for synonyms
until nothing means what it really means.
Can you truly love what’s not right
in front of you? Is this love grief or
make-pretend? You left, then I left
the garden. Can I ever go back? Ben—
There was a time when your name
was my name, and there was no such
silly thing as California. Between the sky
—
Everything changes in fixed motion.
Just look at the season, pulled red and thin.
Heat hiding under the tattered leaf cover.
It was a Sunday, to me. I was staring
at a photo you sent me: your head
shaved down to a faint shadow.
My eyes moved across like fingers:
over the crest above the forehead, over
the ridges fused together, frontal to parietal.
All this time, this was a part of you still
untouched by suns. Where is your hair now?
On the floor, in the wastebasket—
whole years measured in inches.
Was it me you shorn yourself from? Each hair
—
a different word. For love I fended off
depression. Cleaned and cleaned and cleaned.
For so long, I fed the fire, panicked it warm.
Now you rise like a moon above me.
Will you forget me one day? I am so—I was—
I still love to watch your face lifting
through the cloud cover. Between the sky
and landscape, smog fills the valley
like a bowl of smoke. I saw a photo:
the sun orange as a bomb. Vague mountains.
My thirtieth year keeps skipping over
the ridges, frontal to parietal. This land was once
a small town I could fit in, having arrived
through imperfect concentric circles.
—
Between the sky and landscape:
the bed, long and abstracted. Ben we were
a dream I panicked and kept warm.
Unconscionably green. California was a line
I all but passed through. Between the sky
and me: your face, a pale moon.
Your name, a string of smoke.
This can’t be real — all this time
we were changing in fixed motion.
I panicked, I felt it: the fire
shaved down to a faint shadow.
Across the street from Forest Lawn
I was a thousand pilgrims
grieving in the grass, well-hidden.
—
Over the crest, above the forehead,
your voice arriving through clouds
and different words for sleep. Just ask me —
Will you forget me one day? Ben —
It was you here in my name’s
awkward and bearable heft.
They sent me to manage it. The sky
perfectly square, and the opening
that appears there suddenly like a palm.
Your face, an icon. I was untenable.
Once, there was a time. An imaginary line
a black train chuffing. Tell me about your day
in bed, pointing to my body. Tell me
and I will give you synonyms for synonyms
—
for a den in the grass, well-hidden.
For love I fended off depression —
Just look at the season, pulled red and thin.
Once you left the garden, I came back
through an opening I kept warm.
I am—I was—I all but passed through.
Was it me you shorn yourself from
through a cloud, frontal to parietal.
The history of the earth is long
but it’s still morning time to me. California—
Glassell Park—like a record that keeps.
In the bed, I fended off fixed motion.
Tell me about your day until smog fills
the valley, the air, the sun a bomb, a fire that
—
cleans and cleans and cleans.
Just look, we were shaking like trees.
When you left — I was, I was.
When you left, I didn’t. Ben—
I didn’t know what to do. I was
a landscape stormed by clouds. I’ve been
hiding under different words for sleep.
Ben, all this time. It was—I am—
right in front of you. Your eye just opening
ripples across my face. You reach under
the cloud cover, behind the trees well-hidden.
Love, grief, or make-pretend: my hand
redrawing lines. You can touch me here
until nothing means what it means.
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