She is so tired - almost lethargic

Drugged by wet heat and sweet oil.

If she succumbs, sinks down deep

Into scented foam, will her nerves react

As water slips up her nose?

Does she have a safety system to shock her awake?

Smoke sifts insidiously into the lungs.

Would water?

 

She is afraid – she – who spears cold surf

Slicing into elemental thrust laughing.

She fears this warm seductive womb.

Slowly she closes the curtain of plastic swans

Swimming endlessly through golden lily pads.

An old refrain wavers into her mind:

‘Now I lay me down to sleep … I lay me… down…’

Upon the unsubstantial pillow –  ‘and sleep.’

 

 

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas