On the first of many sleepless nights

Michael McGovern

We wander. Through the darkened halls

Of sleeping homes—we miss a step

Here or there but always regain our

Footing, we claw familiar walls

And kitchen sinks for comfort, we

Dread the faultlines between floorboards,

Creaking as we do when meeting someone

New—a forced politeness that

Crystallizes our fluid movements of

Comfort—handshakes held in place by

Polyurethane, opinions and preconceptions

All the same. We look for something

To distract ourselves.

We find in a lost drawer a lost photo

Album, and peel back the pages that have

Clung together for warmth in winter

And loneliness on those summer nights, the

Sound of feeding baby, reluctantly yet

Vigorously pulling away from mother.

The cries follow. But in these photos we

See selves that we left on childhood shelves

Rooms we have moved from and the room we

Are in starts to spin until we are placeless

And nameless, everything we are and

Will never be, juxtaposed, jumbled;

We jump eighteen feet high into the air

And float above what we thought we knew

To discover a late-night truth:

It’s all in our heads.

Settle down now, we pick up a book—or

That dreaded TV deathset—and drift

In a completely different direction.

We forget ourselves completely and

The pulse starts to slow, sweet

Beads of sweat line up on a thread,

Thick mucus gathers between

Our eyelids; oh vain sun, don’t

Penetrate this perfect wall,

This lack of awareness, for when we

Do find peace, we also wonder

Why it had to take so long.