by Carole Bromley

Just me and the moon, after all.
Beside me, you. Sleeping like a baby.
A baby who’s taken a swig from the nurse’s bottle,
a drag on a stub end he found in the ash-tray.
Spread-eagled, one knee raised.
You make sleep impossible.

Anyway how could I sleep tonight?
I lie in what’s left of the bed
like a jigsaw piece in the wrong puzzle
and watch the stars who don’t care
staring back from another millennium.
They’ve seen it all before.

Just me and the moon, after all.
He might be just a sliver of his former self
but he knows what he wants of me:
my faithful gaze, his own reflection
in my eyes that stare up at him
through the cold, uncurtained glass.