AROUND MIDNIGHT


AROUND MIDNIGHT

      --for Karen

Almost in disbelief, I open
to a new page in the notebook,
write the time turning on the light.
Karen sleeping, the humidifier,
it's not on. I get out of bed
to fill it, but where did I put
Rukeyser's poems before
falling asleep? Asking myself
as I get back into bed. Karen's
breathing stops me. The familiar,
but odd, sound. A kind of puffing,
her lips opening as she exhales.
I reach over, touching her arm,
Hmmm, she says, while I caress
her arm. Take a couple deep breaths,
OK? She nods. I've turned
the humidifier on. It's working.
It is the sound in the bedroom.
At some point, I become aware
of the notebook in my hand,
I've fallen asleep,
and the pen, held as if ready,
or perhaps, waiting, as if
I didn't know I'd fallen asleep
myself. I put the pen
inside the notebook, turn
out the light, listening to Karen
breathing with the humidifier.
The flow of the day returns
through her, the one who
gives me means, all that means.
When that happens everything
surfacing disappears. The humidifier
returns to the yard sale it came from.
I am in bed with Karen's breathing,
being quieted, lulled back
into myself, able in this dark.

Jim Bodeen
8-12 October 2019

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