Hour of Comfort

Empty the house.

In my hour of comfort,

I will never

dream of seeing another face,

save yours.

I will strip away

the layers

of things I have worn

for the sake of others.

Exoskeleton—

feathers

singed beyond repair,

a fissured mask

casted

from an unnamed woman

blessed only with the visage

of a deity,

and a crown so heavy

it ruptured

a vertebrae once before.

I will take my slumber

bare like the shore

at low tide,

no need to hide

skin that has lacked

breath for weeks,

and, sometimes, centuries.

In my hour of comfort,

I will search for

all the secrets

I have buried in our nest

like acorns stored for the cold—

Yesterday evening,

the bartender smiled

but didn’t mean it

because she remembered

your name

and you forgot hers.

There was a child

on the train

who silently wilted;

He wanted to sing,

but his mother wouldn’t

entertain it.

Our dogs

don’t understand

why you kiss me

and not them—

You never question

the noteworthiness

of these fragments.

Instead,

you will perch my head

atop your chest

then let them trickle

and pool into your navel

for safekeeping.

In my hour of comfort,

we will drink tea

enriched with all the spices

in our cabinet

and use cinnamon sticks

like straws.

We will draw pictures

on each other’s

backs with curious fingertips

and take careless

guesses

at the resemblance.

When the Moon

shines through the drapes,

I will remind you

that she is my mother,

and, together,

we will bask in the charm

of her comfort.