The three boys run about us, and we stay at the dinner table with our backs hunched. We look at each other droopy-eyed, and we smile side-ways. No need to say it. We’re tired.
After sleeping boys and a television show, we sludge to bed, into new sheets. Seth hypnogogically jerks. My body immediately stills. The internal hum begins to quieten.
Only a few thoughts spin on their wheels: I think myself genius for noticing inconsistencies in a plot, think of flowers at the rock house, how much I’ve eaten today, a song. Then right as I gently edge at the tip of sleep, right as the thoughts grow wings and leap off the wheel, they wake me, the memory list of things I’ve chopped up and pushed to the corners. They gather again like Terminator metal and turn into hot breathing flesh.
… continue reading at Emily Wierenga’s place, Imperfect Prose.