by Angela Cowan
Breath heavy, your nose plugged from
too much cat hair, snuffling,
I am painfully awake.
Aware, always at some small hour of the morning,
that this moment is inconstant. Your
breath will not always be there.
Your arm, the skin still young and freckled,
thrown carelessly round my middle will not
always still my mind with its weight.
Every moment is inconstant,
each exhalation that stirs the few
free hairs, brushed back over my ears,
each is unique. And I don’t
care: about the dishes,
about the car,
about dinner plans,
about all the small irritations.
I just want your arm on my waist,
and your sleeping breath,
low and even, until I fall too.