Photo by Greta Unetich
(Title after Iain S. Thomas’s poem The Sweet Release)
I am so tired I start to doze off, my head on your living room floor next to a pile of Scrabble tiles, curled up like a cat
On an ottoman.
I am so tired that the bath towel hanging on a rod in your bathroom starts to sway back and forth in front of my eyes. It’s not a windy night, and your window isn’t even open.
You put your face close to mine and say let’s go to bed.
We turn off the light and rest, as easy as the first step in every single meal we’ve made: frying garlic and onions in hot oil in the All-Clad skillet, as easy as putting dinner into the oven and dividing it between ourselves once it’s done, as easy as giving me some of the leftovers to take home the next day. The sweet release of myself to sleep is yours— on the living room floor, on your bed, everywhere.
Kindergarten 