sleep, I’m a fogged mirror. On
the fourth night, I’m a snake, a
lizard sliding legless. On the
fifth night, I’m a puddle, a flat
tire, a melted iron lung
somehow still breathing. On
the sixth night, I’m you, who
you were, the you I knew
before this
word, before this diagnosis,
before this sleepless week, this
hospital fear, this
pins-and-needle arm held
up toward you for hours, for
days, your hand crushing mine,
a man’s hand now, but still, if I
could rock you to sleep, like a
baby, but still.