Carmen Butcher

She Sleeps

While small soles press soft trysts on my tired feet I do not need
that suddenly upright Walnut Creek townhouse legleglegtumble with a
half-gnawed, distracted and astonished bagel; or the sharp rescue of the sweetest
parts of us from my belly into our arms, bawling, red, with a breech ridge and
black hair; or stealing beauty's strength softening thirty-eight-year-old lips
against curves like my moon under eyes unlike that brighter ball for being
brighter and yet gentle; or the much laughter for no reason before and after Q
and the Quick Queen of Quincy and her Quacking Quackeroos; or even that
orchestra of sleepless crying once threatening my mental bricks; because I don't
need souvenirs tonight after swinging round to queasy in a lop-sided tire
swing, covering ourselves in hot sand, breaking brown rings to feel tender
bread together and eat your favorite sprinkled sugar flower cookie at the
frequent House of Bagels. Tonight I knew exactly what those ten warm toes
meant.

Carmen Butcher writes: I have a Ph.D. but don't hold it against me. I grew up near Atlanta and studied at the University of Georgia. I was a Fulbright Scholar in London ten years ago studying Anglo-Saxon. Now I'm a stay-at-home mother in Northern California. I chase my daughter, play with my husband, edit books, write (revise) poetry and hate to cook.