| Best
Asleep
When he said he loved her best asleep he meant the grammar of her face—all its tenses, the never-ending story—how it trailed off into an ellipsis as she dozed, the thousand outpouring faces all poured out of the bright container. And its spout — the parted mouth, the little sleep-pout of the lips — how it held fast to a few glistening drops which he stole with the tip of his tongue without waking her. But she heard him differently. Didn’t he mean he preferred her silent, thoughtless, blank as a blank page, so that he could write the story of who she was, or ought to be? And didn’t he think that loving her best asleep was like wishing her dead? He said he didn’t think that’s what he said. Paul Hostovsky |
If you have any comments on this poem, Paul Hostovsky would be
pleased to hear them.
