the origin of sleep 

at the end of this hallway 
there will be a nurse's office 
where we can go to sleep. grey mats 
to splay out on & the soft angelic drone 
of the white neon. inspecting
the shelf of first aid items: rubber gloves
& band aides & vials of pills. a medicine cabinet
made of glass opening by itself. the nurse 
reminds us that we should be sleeping more.
the nurse reminds us we can't 
came back here every day and we say 
yes of course we won't. sleep comes like
blotches of yellow. a raining fog.
a fist of sand. a tree branch falling
on the playground. i would rather sleep her
than have recess where it's cold outside 
& the other children know what my name means.
i sift my body for something to think about
as i stare up at the panels of the ceiling.
i want to tell the elementary school nurse
that i'm too old for this. that i'm
twenty-three now & still escaping 
to this room. the nurses office 
means you can pause everything.
means crinkling paper. means checking
for illness. means sometimes going home.
i want a full autopsy. i want
the sleep to be located & held up
to light in all its navy blue burning.
i don't know what i'm doing
inside this specific possibility 
other than the fact that i need fixing.
i tell lovers that i am 
no worthy of love & that they should
hurt me if they want to do this right.
i don't them about the nurses office
& how in my younger body 
i'm taken care of. how they're gentle
to the smallest scrap on my skin.
i invent wounds. i hold up my finger 
& point to the bare skin saying
that it hurts-- that it hurts so much
& the nurse peers closer before
asking where & how & why.
here i sleep & sometimes others come too,
pretending i'm not here.
pretending this isn't an invention 
of both of our needs. 
one boy gets covered head to toe 
in band aides & another swallows 
fist-fulls of pills. the nurse
informs me these are just what they need
& that we all need something different.
she tells me i should go to sleep again--
that i should count the panels
on the ceiling & sip my name
letter by letter from a straw.
she is no one i've ever met
& i don't try to remember her.
she has curly & straight hair.
she has black & white nail polish.
she flickers before i fall asleep
& wake up in my average bed
at the end of no hallway
inside of no school made of glass
where there is no recess children 
crowding at the window & asking
to toss my name like a rubber ball
from tongue to tongue.