Threshold

You are summoned
at the witching hour,

piercing the membrane
of my mare –

an approaching
wall of wave

so high

it bleeds
to sky.

Sitting patiently
on your side
of the bed,

silver outline like
forensic chalk,

I struggle to say
your name.

Tongue plucked
limb lost,

unable to reach out.

Rousing
from this
palimpsest

it dawns
I’ve folded myself
like laundry,

lovingly laid
on my arm.

For the next
few seconds
it will remain

half-asleep,
spectral numb,

belonging to
someone else.