You Leave and I Can’t Sleep
By Lynn Houston
In August 2016, while at a writing residency, I met a man who was already supposed to have deployed with his National Guard unit. We were given the gift of three weeks before he left, time we used to get to know each other, as we helped out on a friend’s farm, had long conversations on a porch swing, and rode his motorcycle up into the mountains. The night before he left the country, as he was driving to the base, we talked on the phone for over three hours. For six months while he was gone, I sent him near-daily poems in the mail. When he returned, after an initial successful reunion, it became clear that he was plagued with anger issues and other problems associated with a difficult re-entry into his civilian life. He began seeing someone else, and we broke up. In my grief, I revised the poems I’d sent him and began submitting them to poetry contests. Unguarded won the inaugural chapbook contest of the Heartland Review Press and is due to be released in December 2017, with a series of readings and book signings in the Elizabethtown, KY, area scheduled for early 2018.
You Leave and I Can’t Sleep
If I’m writing this, it means I can’t sleep and that
the rain outside my window drops blindly in the dark.
The crops need it, the cashier told me earlier, ringing
me up for a pint of milk, making small talk, making change.
And now the tipped carton has marred the pages
on my too-small desk. I’m trying not to make too much of it—
this mess, the disasters my life and pages gather.
I’m trying to be kinder to myself, more forgiving.
Outside, a leopard moth lands on the screen, shudders
to dry its wings. One touch from my finger would strip
the powdered coating that allows it to fly in rain.
I wish it might have been so easy to keep you
from boarding the plane that took you to war.
In the predawn, my neighbors still asleep, I am the only one
to hear the garbage truck grind to a stop,
its brakes the sound of an animal braying.
The rain has stopped, too. I look over the smudged papers
on my desk. Nothing important has been lost.
When you come home safely to me in six months,
we will be able to say, nothing important has been lost.
Editor’s Note: This poem is the second of a series. The first poem, “On the Farm, Before You Leave for Afghanistan,” was published two weeks ago.
About the Author: Lynn Marie Houston holds a PhD from Arizona State University and an MFA from Southern Connecticut State University. Her poetry appears in numerous literary journals–such as O-Dark-Thirty, Gravel, Painted Bride Quarterly, Ocean State Review, Heavy Feather Review–and in her three collections: The Clever Dream of Man (Aldrich Press), Chatterbox (Word Poetry Books), and Unguarded (Heartland Review Press). For more information, visit lynnmhouston.com
Image Credit: John Coates Browne “View from parlor window, Presqu’ile” (The Getty’s Open Content Program)