I Awake

Django,

just as you tip the song over

and spill everything out of it,

I split a clove of garlic on the chest of a knife

and press it with the cold cheek of a spoon.

And when your fingers ache,

mine will, too.

Just as I hear your gypsy tune come carouseling

off of high-cornered ceilings,

bending without shape

around the open frames of unlocked doors,

I float a bay leaf over the broth,

bring it all to a boil—then bring it low—

and sweep the scraps onto the floor.

I wait for you

in a room filled with that simmering murmur,

by the window looking out

on the passing sun—

on all the callow switches,

stitched and quilted by unbeaten snow.

We have winter minds, Django;

this cold keeps us warm with forgetfulness.

Sit here with me and listen to the land—

tapping, dripping, wheezing through the pane

and softly through the room,

tipping me adrift into a dream—

like snow lured into a bluster,

or a fallen branch

wheeling gradually down an empty road.