Beneath the Sheets

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BENEATH THE SHEETS


Turns out there’s something beneath

our waking that sucks our blood

when we’re bleary enough to believe 

it. Turns out it thrives even in the slats

of the floorboards, the secondhand 

furniture, its husks showing up 

on the baby book and the nook behind 

the outlets. We always knew this itching 

must be powered from somewhere, 

that even were we to put our finger on it,

to feel the crunch of its little spine, 

it would come crawling back 

from a crack we hadn’t yet explored. 

We’re losing our minds. Nothing is ours

anymore. To think that after all this time 

we’re finally getting it. 

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