Insomnia Ghazal
The stop-watched tick. The seconds enough
to reckon, to weigh. The pill a pillow pressed to –
Just a swine flu of the mind, just a little touch, I
confess to a waiting room of lips masked clean shut.
If to bandage is to veil, & to veil is to
disguise, then we must learn to bind our purblind eyes.
Like a grave rubbing, the midwives press paper
to my cauled face, sailor’s charm, half-a-crown a head.
Migraine asserts its pick-axe hold. I draw
the shade & sit, half my days in this dark world.
Cover your mouth, Rebecca, the patients’ blue-
papered jaws crinkle at me. Just a little. Just a touch.
