Todd Dillard

Insomnia

Some nights she’s an apparition
darkening the hallway, floorboards
beneath her feet grieving.

Usually, she pipettes into my ear
what’s keeping her awake:
shin bones aching,

white horses neighing
ride away with me, stuffed
bears snared in quicksand sheets.

She climbs into the crucible
between my wife and me, folds
her body into our breathing.

All night her legs twist
like worn keys, sleep’s tumblers
just out of reach.

Pre-dawn, when I lurch out of bed,
she rolls into the warmth I’ve shed
and watches me open

dark’s door.
This final lesson
I give to her early:

when I leave
there will be light
where I used to be.

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