Countenance

a response to “The Numbers” by Kim Addonizio

How many nights do I stay awake and listen, smoothing the sheets,
waiting for something, my breath and bone patient and thirsty?
How many times do I put my fingers together, soft skin, and feel the weight
in my hips? Am I wasting time waiting for prayers, to listen
to something else, somewhere else; I want it to end.
I want to be able to see it all, to bear it heavy on my shoulders and heart;
I want it to stop and say one true thing to me. How I have waited,
praying as the city lights shut down, feeling earthquake tremors
until it was quiet. Can I manage to rest?
The city is not sleeping; it is just slowing in the space between two breaths.
I step through the door and the silence brings me under,
counting cars and streetlights; wishing they would all fall down.
How can I take it every day; I pass my breath through the flames and count:
kisses; fingerprints in the dust; memories as I’m slipping—
I am tired now, and the moon is breaking through the window.
Can I touch the sky, the grass? Can I rest now?