Shh. The evening is turning green
and the trees are inching closer.
They will keep our sleep forested
with birds that are fast vanishing
from the world. The cuckoo pulls the jungle
down from the north, like a blanket
over the supine legs of the coast. It wakes us
from our pseudo slumber of half-cooked dreams,
and for a moment the suburbs are a wilder,
more adventurous place. Last night
lightning set our room on fire, and we slept through it all.
No one can protect you from the clamorous world
except yourself, and not even you
can calm it down sometimes. I would if I could
but my sleepless mind plays tricks on me. It’s alright
to fall asleep while he suckles at your breast –
this is what your father did not say,
though I could have sworn he did at 3 am,
as I nodded off over the alien
peristalsis of your mouth. We are two strangers,
drunk on each other, or you are drunk on milk and I am drunk
on the smell of your peeling skin,
the acrobatics of your lips
trying out their catalogue of pouts
and grimaces to be performed for years to come.
You cannot hold your head up, and everything is a danger,
especially me, who cannot help but love you
the way a turtle knows
to love the same beach year after year,
even when it could not be further away.