Pajama Strangle

Barely there, I lurked minutes, days, and hours

pretending meaning lay in dark, around a turn,

ever on the edge of understanding or knowing;

the condition of life, they say, that stretching on.

Naked I slept, too roused in a strangled sleep,

a mind refusing to rejuvenate in still idle stop,

pajamas abandoned for safety in the passage

to dreamscapes blind, conspiracy plot defused.

Exposed in button down, collared pajama shirts

to snuff a peaceful sleep in twisted neck tubing,

constricting dry breath with a cobra flannel grip,

plastic bullets embedding skin imprinted targets.

So, nude I slept, exposed in unsuspecting hours 

by day, vulnerable to negotiate the middle path,

invisibly drawn with white ink on scalloped seas

foamy, colorless and frigid for all the life it holds.

There you slept with me hanging on for dear love

afraid to let go even in death to loosen your hold,

your legs enwrapping mine in immobilized sleep

beckoning childhood’s grip on a pajama strangle.



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