Beth Gylys
A Constant Wish to Be Asleep
I don’t have you to talk to
about you. That is one
problem among many, like eating:
not what, but how to stop.
Seems every time I pay attention,
another thing I can’t tell you:
black puppy with pink collar,
its ecstatic wiggling wag,
or the elegant stranger who I offered
an arm, dragging one leg on her way
to a baby shower—her plum
lipstick, her pebbled wool suit.
Things you would have noticed.
I’d like to think—but doubt—
you know. Here’s another:
thoughts. I tongue them like something
between my teeth. They slip free,
a fistful of seeds, but do not
grow or sprout. They disintegrate,
but never slowly. I want to
remember your hands. Here’s one
more: I can’t describe the sound
of disappearing. Whenever I try,
you are no longer there to hear.
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Beth Gylys is an award-winning poet and professor of creative writing at Georgia State University. Her 4th collection of poetry, Body Braille, was recently released by Iris Press. Her other books include Sky Blue Enough to Drink, Spot in the Dark, and Bodies that Hum; she has also published two chapbooks, Matchbook and Balloon Heart. Her work has appeared in Rattle, Barrow Street, Paris Review, Verse Daily and many other journals and anthologies.