to sleep soundly

to sleep soundly, a woman must welcome her visitors by choosing poetry that will sing to their particular tongues and she must laugh clearly enough to break the fog on a cold, humid evening. she must eat heartily so that deep flavors settle across her body and anyone who kisses her can taste them. she must trail her fingernails against her own palms and quiver at the feeling of her own touch.

to sleep soundly, a woman must encircle the moment of crystal waking that comes just before her evening journey begins, but then let it pass, without clinging or grasping. she must shout her argument only when poetry or the sky is at stake and then she must do so from her belly, with the weight of the world’s children coloring her breath.

to sleep soundly, a woman must breathe maple syrup on snow each fall and salty ocean lips each summer. the lilac smell of her own sweat should cause her to burrow into her own writing and she must let the jewel in her belly shine.

to sleep soundly, a woman must forget herself while she makes love, forget the word physical. she must extend into her own limbs and scream and moan and touch herself and her lover without noticing whether the lights are on. her arms must open freely with no need to hold her heart against the fear that it might fall from her chest.

to sleep soundly, a woman must put down her work. she must lie down in a quiet room with daisies and chrysanthemums and quiet the lights. if crying, she must observe her body’s sensations without declaring a meaning or wondering if they will keep sleep at bay. she must touch herself sleepily while the moon wanders into her room and she must say, finally, this is where i will rest.