Your arm slept lazily across my side
as if it belonged. You did not
move, but the broken rhythm
of your breathe told me that you were awake.
No effort was made to allow me in,
my own breathing desperate for a pattern.
Each time you shift, my eyes react
against orders, snapping open
to make sure that you are comfortable
-an instinct I cannot abate. But you can
sleep soundly through anything.
my movements, whatever size, go unnoticed.
It is morning and I am frozen, the blankets
hugging you, nothing hugging me. I wait
expectantly for the buzz of the alarm; the one
you will allow to wake you up. You notice it.
I call to you from the kitchen,
but you are halfway out the door.
Your breakfast, like me, remains untouched.
Daddy’s Little Girl
He knew her eyes were blue
when she was born. Now she wore
her hat pulled so low, he couldn’t tell
if that had changed. But she had
always kept herself separate
from the others. Straggly hair
baggy pants and shirts
that drooped haphazardly past
her tattooed wrists. She was barely
around anyway, and he could
not listen to things she did not say.
Her bedroom door became the gate
To her private prison. Her warden
could not find the key, though
she knew he had not tried.
She would not be the one
to let him in.