Too Close To Morning
Amy Eisner

One asleep, one awake,
conjoined in a tunnel of heat.
Moisture, posture, I can turn a bit
but I can’t get up–he might ask
what I’m doing, loud & makes me
feel disloyal. He does. I do.
Down the hall the other Siamese
call out from separate rooms,
crying no, refusing pasta,
shouting, It’s my turn, get off!
You’re not answering me, they say.
This for the Book of Sleep.
Now earplugs and a mask.
Next, the removal of limbs.