A Sonnet in Which We Can Pray

I stay awake in the living room at ten thirty at night.
Light from the laptop reveals the contours of my fingers
curved like a pianist’s above the keyboard keys.
The ceiling fan moves the air, it pushes or pulls it

through the frayed fringes of my hair. Somewhere the cats
are roaming the dark. Somewhere a toothless dog is sleeping.
Somehow I feel the need to type so slowly, as if I’m afraid
to disturb Monica and Stephanie sleeping together in their room

at the end of the hall. I feel there must be a reverence
within the quiet tonight, a whispered blessing for those
who can’t remember when the pain began, or what it was like
to roll over into their love and spoon and sleep all night.

Maybe you can remember. Maybe the blazing day’s end
has freed you too, and we can pray together, for everyone.

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