insomnia
In the dark, I play childish games
Would you rather burn, or drown?
Either way you’re left with bones
the ash of them.
Sometimes, the neighbors
are careless with each other.
I can’t help but listen. Can’t help
but study the nuances of thud, the sounds of breaking.
Bottles, bones—
Each hit wondering: wall or flesh?
Each hit I think: calcium, collagen,
sheet after sheet of drywall.
*
The only house I built was a fort
made from your ribcage.
When you sleep our room pulses with a strange silence
and there’s nothing to do except pretend your body is a corpse.
I always practice the hardest things.
I practice and practice your death.
by June Rockefeller
12