She sleeps like a photograph:
on her back, mouth open, arms
thrown up beside her head. It’s
where she fell, hurling herself
at sleep, sleep having no choice
but to catch her. You cannot
fear bears and sleep like that. You
cannot fear a world with teeth.
Her brother has burrowed a
chamber, long as a boy and sour
with biscuit breath. He dreams
of interplanetary travel, orbits vast
enough to melt a human mind.
He calls to me sometimes, less
than he did. He’s busy now:
learning from the monsters when
to run, when to cover his eyes.
Meanwhile I, professionally
afraid, sleep like a skittish
child at the tide’s tongue: squinting,
jumping back before the wave
breaks on the dark sand. While my
dolphin children, too far out,
send back to me impatient
clicks: come on, come on, come on.
