New Poem

Questions of Sleep


A cough, a tickle,
a sudden rise and froth
at the back of your throat—
something unnamed
drags you out of bed,
heavy footed, into mine.
You curl into me,
all chatter and conjunctions,
little “c” into big “C”
in the loose alphabet
of mother and daughter.
Your skin, infused with
shampoo and half-sleep
rests against my grain
silent as a star,
each dip and swirl
searching for the right word,
the form of things, how night
wraps its body around day
and asks for nothing but this
small happiness. What keeps us awake
other than the cheap wall clock
pushing the second hand toward day
the sound of no sound, the sound
of drifting, of grieving, of trying to find
a name for this.