I Slept with Insomnia
Insomnia came knocking on my door at half-past three.
The Angel of Death had long passed out,
fishnets tight around her throat,
a dirty needle dangling from just below the knee;
the Tooth Fairy was trading milk teeth for booze
on the corner of Fear and Doubt
with a nervous gentleman who had a head like a goat.
Insomnia knocked three times, and let herself in,
her tatty robes behind her like torn leather strips,
scraping over cold tiles, over my skin;
sweet lullabies oozed over her chapped lips
in a voice as old as dry weather,
a storm of emotions conjured, a concoction
of cold blood clots, sour grapes, and bad trips.
Insomnia stayed the night stretched out on my bed,
told me to write something nice about her,
or the curve of her armpits instead;
I can’t, I said, they’re dread-locked with fur;
I crawled in next to her, put my head on her breast.
A sigh of satisfaction moistened her lips:
There, there, deary, let’s take a rest.