Fall 1989 • Vol. XI No. 4 Poetry |

A Kind of Aubade

I woke before dawn and laylistening for the echoes of my dream, or the bark, or birdcall, or whatever it was that roused me. Your body floated inert, alongside, breathing lightly. Gradually, the room took on the shape it has by day but in the dark it was the stateroom of a drowned liner, the Titanic, or a cabin in the tourist ferry that sank last year off Belgium. The ceiling light drifted at the end of its stalk; the gloom was wobbly with strains of music and last night's argument. I felt you slip sideways from the bed, and step (carefully so as not to wake me),not downstairs, but to the bathroom—I could hear the muffled stream of piss, a soft flush, the click of the doorknob, and you came back and lay down again, your back to me. So it was your restlessness, or waking, your dream or worry that woke me. I felt for your hand, and we rolled towards each other, touched by each other's loneliness, our bodies pliant, simple in their requests, and easy to love.

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I woke before dawn and laylistening for the echoes of my dream, or the bark, or birdcall, or whatever it was that roused me. Your body floated inert, alongside, breathing […]

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