Poem From Iowa

This is how I thought it would be, to be
away from you: I would write.
And you would write back. We would sleep together
in time, not space, and in time
count sheep: the lamb, the lamb
and the ewe, and the ram, and the ewe
and the dam, and the mating.
When we woke you would read what I wrote.
I would write. Over a page like this
page, I would sweat myself out
a tiara. I could take that circlet off my brow,
I could center its place in the rug’s oasis.
Late at night, to replenish my liquids,
I’d draw from my own head; like a well.

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