This Being the Usual Signal

 

by Donna Vorreyer

 

 

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.