The chiropractor sent me home
with my left ankle taped, my neck
cracked, and instructions not to sleep
on my belly, so when it came time
for bed, I dropped a tequila shot,
laid back and closed my lids, entrails
exposed to vultures of bad dreams.
From the neighboring pillow,
my love whispered theories
of meditation, biofeedback, post-
traumatic stress, and prayer. When
she asked, "If a divine creator
made the universe, who made
the divine creator?" I mumbled,
"Are you trying to talk me to sleep?"
She smiled, then babbled
past midnight, contemplating out loud
the metaphysics of leaf production,
the wonder of molecules
that make up our bed, the web
of my cell structure connected
to hers, until I fell asleep,
imagining the mitochondria
of words, thinking, if god is
love, let me sleep to this sound of her voice.
from: In Praise of Falling. Copyright 2010.