Jane McKie
My husband levitates at night. As birds begin
to vibrate and snow sifts from the curtains,
I wake to see him lift another inch, cat-curled
on his side, soft as bread. He faces away
but I can tell he smiles, every breath huffs
with smile. I don’t touch him. I fear his rest,
worry my stranger’s reach will stop his heart.
My mother searches drawers at night. Thunk
thunk – I can tell they’re empty, the next room
made hollow with the slap of resinless MDF,
its peculiar Calvinism. What does she look for?
Not careworn vests or handkerchiefs, not turtle-
necks or figure-hugging skirts; she prefers
pantsuits these days, the shed skins of shapes.
My daughter lines her tired eyes at night: violet
or ultramarine, even when she stays at home.
I can hear the tinny iPod dreaming, its tsking
irks me like no other sound – insectoid,
subtly overbearing. At least she is here.
It makes me wince, finding a vein in my head,
but it tick tick ticks my melancholy girl to sleep.
My son is like my husband at night: lost
to the pillow without complications.
The story he reads behind his lids would shock me.
I choose not to enquire – of myself,
or of my friends with famished boys.
I know his hair smells like pan-drops, his feet
slop over the bed. He is an open lotus flower.
We dream of banana trees, a rummy sun,
round doubloon. A Jamaican breeze
sifts through washed linen, makes shirts
and sheets gape feather mouths.
We’ll never go, but know the sand is a spread
of lit coals that scald underfoot.
We’ll never go, but the Church of God
of Prophecy calls to us, prayers rooted
in the breath of doze, bibles tumbling
from our laps. Wake up. This antiseptic world
shows a little colour, an inkling. Here –
gold; and here – selves; slow to be reborn,
but it happens. As soap slides off the roof,
hens stir in the barn, every one
about to lay. We dream of hummingbirds,
newly hatched and clucking, crimson tongues.
We dream of banana trees, a rummy sun
on the turn, our heads aflame with psalms.
