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