Stillness
of Esme
lying
between us in bed, in as deep a darkness as this
communality
with street lights allows.
This
is the profile of a girl calmed after a bad dream
Long
neck.
Golden
(her word), hair swooped aristocratically over a high forehead.
Tiny
nose, delicate and
maybe--eyes still open?
maybe--eyes still open?
Her
breathing has slowed from its earlier panicked pace.
Is she thinking and not sleeping?
Is she thinking and not sleeping?
That's
when I realize,
grateful it's her, not him:
grateful it's her, not him:
This
is the difference between girls and boys.
(I
generalize here for the sake of sleep).
Simon
could never lie so still even at 4:45 in the morning.
Deeply
sleepy comes out in him as
Hilarious,
if only to him.
Sideways
smile slips out a happy “No,” tone tilting upwards at the end of the word
to
show he means it but it’s not personal.
Instead of sleep he
would offer us his great corporeality, roiling waves of legs
swinging
down up CRASH on the bed
Heavy
head seesawing its turn to do the same.
Ouch!
Everyone says, eventually.
Even
him, at the backdoor of tears, as it gets
way
too late to be up so long, Love.
But
Esme.
Her
inner life as strong as his legs.
Esme’s
silence, her Esmeness
maddening
during the day when questions go unacknowledged
a
not quite guileless look up, surprised, What?
is the what which allows this quiet form, this elegance to lie between us in our bed.
Now
in the deep dark early morning I remember:
She
has her own world we don’t know about
the one we hoped she would create.
the one we hoped she would create.
I
fail first, fall asleep.
She
touches me reassuringly on the leg
as
I drift off.