Wooden slats subdivide the moon,
slice light into almost even strips.
Thick eyelashes sweep the stillness
of lines cast across your sleeping face.
Light stripes you, reveals you in fractions—
closed eyes, mouth, scar from your first shave.
Lines of light tremble in the thunder of a passing train.
You sleep on, undisturbed.
After one sacred day and night,
my restlessness answers your snores.
I count flashes of light splash
fleeing shapes across your face.
I’ve always slept alone. Now rest
eludes me. I subtract you piece by piece,
examine brow bones and stray freckles.
The quality exceeds the sum total of addends.
Add you up again—
and consider multiplication.
Rynell Lewis feels her life is a friendly rough draft. Though she is mostly a mom, she occasionally works from home editing and writing. She resides in Utah with her four young children and husband.
