communion

Stomach, down.
Globular compression
between 250-count percale
and unyielding rib.
Chin over pillow
in the dark,
blue lines on white sheets,
pointing, headboard to footboard.
Arms outstretched, encircled,
You, a half-sleeping reach
to draw breath scented
of my shampoo.
In the nearsighted world
between undress and sleep
I can only wonder
at your previous life’s price
which purchased a rebirth
as the most spoiled creature
in my household.
 (meow.)

***

Every night we go through this, he and I. Within five minutes of my crawling into bed, I hear the sound of stealthy paws creeping toward my bed then—leap!—purr!—I am headbutted and tail-swished. While I might be sleepy, it is not yet time for sleep. It is time for petting, Edmund declares.

Only after he has thoroughly kneaded my arms and shoulders, buried his head in my hair once or twice, purred loudly in my ear and licked my nose a time or two (and sometimes licking Jeff’s nose too, just for good measure) can it possibly be time for me to go to sleep.

Which is what I’m about to attempt to do.

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