Our Sleeping Children

Our Sleeping Children
by Renee Emerson

He never hears them
though we sleep in the same
room, same bed, and my side being
the further side with the more narrow view
of the door, the light a pale avenue.

Listening to the terrible
murmurings of my imagination,
which comes for us nightly,
I hear small assurances
of living: turns, irregular
breathing, half-awake mumblings

But mostly the silence
of their separate
rooms, and how far
away from me they are now.

from Keeping Me Still (Winter Goose Publishing, 2014)

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