Anne Holub
Image by David Cohen on Pixabay
Anne Holub's poetry has been featured on Chicago Public Radio and in The Doubleback Review, The Mississippi Review, The Asheville Poetry Review, Phoebe, and The Beacon Street Review (now Redivider), among other publications, and in the anthology Bright Bones: Contemporary Montana Writing, (Open Country Press). She received a MFA from the University of Montana and a MA from Hollins University. Originally from Charlottesville, Virginia, she now lives and writes in Montana with her husband Dan, their two dogs Merle and Rosie, and a sourdough starter named Larry (RIP) Rhonda.
Insomnia
I.
the dark in which I know
your body and your reaching arm
the dark of what was said
into the dim frame of room – our clothes
at the foot of the bed now a lingering pressure
between our feet, and the streetlight left
knocking at the pull-shade, a swinging
shaft of stained light too sure to be the sun,
searing across the wall a slim diagonal –
as if your voice could be so light
my back, so burned that I rub against the sheet,
try to wear my skin and sweep the char away
to confuse my nerves with friction, steady,
pin down through the night and remember
the low sounds making their slow descent
II.
Are you awake, I have to ask who will have me
now I’ve given away my plans for nights deep
with breaths, how could you forgive how I fill
each hour pretending sleep, all the time spent
half-shut and fluttering, perhaps too drawn to the
sunrise, beating there against the window or
seeking the bright in light bulbs, holding
everything until it burns.
III.
Don’t think the scraping rain remembers
earlier, at twilight, the dim ridge above the trail
and the dog, vibrant, flushing the impossibly round birds
who always cry out like something sharp stuck
in the gullet – don’t worry about the sounds
that dry skin scrapes along your back, the hair’s
sharp memory, a mistake you laugh through every time you think
about what you could have done and
your hands over your mouth – as if speaking
of it were only the beginning of your fears.
IV.
This is not a proper way. These fists cannot find
much comfort when clenched. They stiffen into
flowers, grow brittle against the skin, behind the
tongue, the throat. With compulsion, and some
sense of numbers, I roll a lolling ankle and warm
the sheets with elliptical friction. But this is not the
way to burn through dawn. There is nothing to be
afraid of, some might tell you, then point out the
bears in the sky. The clouds have moved in and I
cannot count the stars for seeing.
V.
before me there was still doubt
does it burn does it leave a mark
there is still the proof
what degree of whole is enough
and empty we empty out
behind our eyes mouths open
from the black say
the stars are broken they snap
curling against fire held in our laps
like strands of hair say
some nights are gladly spent
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