by Janet Ruth
Crouched on the top step, my eight-year-old-self peers down through the banister to where her mother sits reading. A whine—a sobbing hiccup—Mommy, I can’t sleep. Mother chides gently, Well, you’re certainly not going to sleep there. Go back to bed. Already a love/hate relationship with sleep—can’t go there (to sleep), can’t stay there (asleep). Childish monkey mind stews, stirs the pot of whatever worries mar preadolescent subconscious.
with sleep comes
that recurring nightmare
my pounding heart
Almost sixty years later, that monkey still rattles my cage. It bounces among fractured dreams, swings from knotted sheets. Today it is fed by adult worries, the evening news, the trajectory of our world. Time stretches, but the clock has stopped. I flip the pillow, feeling for the cool side. Practice deep yoga breathing—breathe in sleep, breathe out worries. I flip from back to belly. My muffled mantra —
sleep — think of nothing —
think of sleep —
no — no thinking! —
just —
nothing. . . .
drifting
to morning wakefulness
a tune mother hummed
Janet Ruth is a New Mexico ornithologist and poet. Her writing focuses on connections to the natural world. Her book Feathered Dreams was a 2018 NM/AZ Book Awards finalist. Learn more at redstartsandravens.com/janets-poetry.