In Deep, Down Past Sleep Poem by Jill Jones

The way you turn at night toward me
so I take your breath across my face, then
away. And I breathe you, back bare
as a beautiful open country, pale surface
for my lung’s warm wave to draw as my pen
like words that don’t dream but stir.
I turn, the roll of sleep and feel you
reach me. And you are deep behind
down past sleep, with the warm wells
of our nights, fluid as blood, rough as water.
And you wash in the sea that boils
under the arch of the bridge which meets
over us, a cry of skin utters
the wordless yes. And you in deep behind
your sleeping arm curls over the spread
of my shoulder. I’m crossed by breath
opened with skin, and firmly rooted
with the strength of your waking arm.
Under my spreading banks, you push
my full tide.
The way you turn at night
deep behind, down past sleep.