This Being the Usual Signal
Every morning, nausea snakes my throat.
Evening no better. Despite your insistence
on my rest, a new world requires all hands.
My fevered face welcomes breeze, sweat
drying as the moon rises over the loess hills.
Your touch on my neck, feathers and silk.
We lie together, teeter on sleep, float between
the now and the before, push down the old
fears. When we wake, we walk to the river,
choose the smoothest stones for our ritual,
each one a dream we cradle then skip, rolling
the names of the lost just under our tongues.