We’ve been sharing a bed for months now
And I wonder, if like married couples,
two people who sleep touching
over a length of time, end up taking on
traits of the other, then what parts of us
are becoming one as we sleep?       
Perhaps I’ll wake up tomorrow with a dance
germinating in my thighs. Perhaps you’ll wake up
with stubble and acid reflux. Somewhere,
between a snore and a fart, you are contemplating
the weight of fatherhood. Tomorrow
the alarm clock will ring, and we will wake up,
father and son staring, into the other silently,
like two moose in a meadow.
I might claim to know some things about you.
Desires you aren’t even aware you have.
You’ll claim to know some things about me.
History I was sure I’ve hidden. When we brush
our teeth, it is our teeth we brush. When you
wash your hands, it’s your grandfather’s
ashy knuckles that soften. I pay attention
to the way you part your hair now.
It’s such a delicate motion. I want to tell you,
Keep that beauty for yourself. Don’t give it
away. But we both know that’s impossible.
We are here to fall. And we are here
to scrape ourselves off the slate. We are here
to give it all away. Crawl back into bed.
Carry what’s left of ourselves
toward a dream.


From Some of the Light by Tim Z. Hernandez. Copyright © 2023 by Tim Z. Hernandez. Reprinted with the permission of Beacon Press.