Of remembering sleep

Splice me like the segments of a worm–

in between hearts

wriggle in two pieces

to be tapped on the shoulder

by my other half

who is also someone else’s twin.

I don’t know where I go

tips of thistle on a window frame

I am the shards- the angles we take

between dropped dish plate

bones on the red tile floor

whose speckles hide like landmines.

They say we don’t remember sleep

but I do. I stand at the side

of my bed as if waiting for

myself to wake up or die– or both.

I call myself a dormant sleeper

my soul quakes in lava-thunder bellows.

I walk away from the girl who rolls over

thirteen times each night

who counts heart beats like ripples

who closes her eyes like

licked envelopes

and stamps seated in the corner.

I would return only to find we are one.

Somewhere between body

and ghost– somewhere between

lips of chalk and fingers

that drop bread crumbs

out the window like dying

stars.