My boys have drawn together, filled the place
I always lie, my arms spread out, the sweat
of cheek on neck, their hair against my face.
The hours since I removed my arms and let
their heads down softly, listened to them shift
and closed the door, are gone. I missed one throw
an arm across a chest, the other lift
his knees and curl in tight. And soon I know
that one will stir or roll. It’s time to stroke
their hair. It’s time to sing their names the way
we do. It’s time to hold our breath and poke
a hole in dreams and let them drain away.
But I stay still and wonder just how much
their dreams pass through the place their foreheads touch.
Photo by Masaaki Komori