Lullaby

I know you sometimes can't sleep
I hear you gather the blanket around your shoulders
impatiently, and sigh
at the discovery of sheets bunched
in lumpy conspiracy beneath you.
The mattress needs to be turned
and the cat takes up too much room between us.
You turn over your pillow
try to find a cool spot
because I forgot to turn down the heat.
Of course I'm snoring--well,
breathing heavily, then.

I've heard you get up early
sometimes you forget to pull up the covers
but you always kiss me before you leave.
The cat returns with gravy on her whiskers
from the plate of canned food you set out
and she sleeps with me
curled up in the still-warm hollow you made.

I know sometimes you lie awake
after I turn off the light
and watch me sleep.
You breathe cautiously
as if afraid even the rise and fall of your chest
would wake me.
Your leg itches
and you want to take
a more comfortable position
but you lay still
unmoving
as my muscles slacken against you.

If you could give me good dreams
I know you would. And if I
could close your eyes
those hours when they burn and blur
I'd squeeze the sleepiness from my yawn
stir it with warm milk and vanilla
and feed it to you
spoonful by spoonful.

--Vance Briceland

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