Between Night and Morning
Night gathers you like a small secret; I fold you into the hollow of my palms--
soft as breath, heavy as something true I am afraid to name.
You come with the ache of leaving a self that knew how to hold,
the one who kept your map of small mercies in a pocket and learned them by heart.
Be still. Let the city slow to a sound that is almost sleep.
I will press my hand to the place where your thought unravels,
trace the exact angle of your worry until it becomes a quiet rope.
Do not hurry the unlearning; tenderness is slow work, practiced in the dark.
I will say the old names for you softly, as if calling someone home:
the one who set the kettle, the one who memorized the way you laugh.
You are permitted to let that person go like a coat at the door--
not erased, only shelved, warm for the time you might need them again.
If fear arrives tonight, let it find me first; I will teach it patience.
If love arrives like a small, feral animal, I will not cage it-- I will feed it bread.
We will keep nothing theatrical: no loud promises, only the small ledger of care--
a cup refilled, a hand stayed, the steady exhale that counts you safe.
And in the pale hour before your eyes open to the world, when consciousness is thin,
I will be a soft place waiting-- a lamp you can find without thinking.
Hold on to me like the last line of a poem you can almost remember;
I will keep it whole for you until the morning asks you to breathe.
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