Ten
Meredith Davies Hadaway

I know, because I’ve counted them—the freckles stretched
across your back, the veins that twist around your forearm
and the fingertips, each tapered into smooth nails
with rising crescents. Your hand, a wave alongside
twists of pillowcase and sheet, a cloud formation made
by bodies always shifting. At your wrist, the watch
you cannot hear but here beside my head, its ticking
mechanism making little gasps. A wrist now whittled,
as are all the bones, by years of lifting: stones and firewood.
The dog we both loved as you placed her on a last
blanket. Everything now curled around us, floorboards,
walls and windows, ceiling fan that dangles, stopped.
And blinds that pleat the faintest light. Just ten more
minutes of sleep—ten more minutes—ten more—ten.

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