Paresthesia And Sleep Poem by Brian Minniear

When cheeks are zipped open
And demons are pulled from the neck
Screaming, working out the past tenses of these nouns
As the whistling room turns

The only real reason to rouse, weeping
Her outstretched arms asking to be held
What was whispered
What was whispered

And the weights moved
No longer strain aging joints
Like forgetting what and how
But not whom
Or the tactile substantiality
So soon evaporated

Sitting on the edge of the bed
As the whistling room turns