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{o come sweet slumber, drowny sleep} james s. wilk I slept like a baby last night, which is to say like shit— up every couple of hours, crying—and you were still up playing backgammon on the computer. The cyber- plinks and plunks of the die- rolls and pieces moving and the muttered four-letter-words provide solace, knowing that you weren’t chat-room flirting some fellow psychotic. It’s all cycles and entropy now, this swing-shift, Seroquel and lithium-clouded marriage of expletives and apologies. But come tomorrow, I’ll ply you with Pinot, offer a handful of Xanax, kiss you, fondle you, draw up a nice, calming bubble bath. And when you’ve relaxed enough I’ll drown you. |
