Sleep, the adversary

Sleep, how annoying you are—
one of those birds I see barely
from the corner of my eye,
spring warblers flicking through.

If I long for you, you vanish,
a cat who only climbs in my lap
when I’m mending or balancing
a tray with a bowl of chili.

If I seek you, you’re gone.
If I am trying to remember some
thing dangerous or awkward
to forget, you pounce

from the shadows and drag
me under where I long to go
but not just then. How often
has my chin hit my computer

keyboard, have I pinched myself
in the car, sat in an overheated
library while you well up.
You’re a perverse lover

who always wants to do it
in an elevator, on a rickety
porch, in a backseat where
elbows become lethal weapons.

You only want me when I
don’t want you.

copyright 2007 Marge Piercy
bio
Barnwood magazine
Contents 07