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“Insomnia & So On” and “Against the Glass”
Malachi Black
Insomnia & So On
- Fat bed, lick the black cat in my mouth
- each morning. Unfasten all the bones
- that make a head, and let me rest: unknown
- among the oboe-throated geese gone south
- to drop their down and sleep beside the outbound
- tides. Now there’s no nighttime I can own
- that isn’t anxious as a phone
- about to ring. Give me some doubt
- on loan; give me a way to get away
- from what I know. I pace until the sun
- is in my window. I lie down. I’m a coal:
- I smolder to a bloodshot glow. Each day
- I die down in my bed of snow, undone
- by my red mind and what it woke.
Against the Glass
- Rocking in my midnight robe, I am
- alive and in an eye again beside
- my kind insomniac, my phantom
- glass, companion and my only bride:
- this little window giving little shine
- to something. What I see I keep
- alive. I name the species, I define
- the lurch and glimmer, sweep and pry
- of eyes against the faint-reflecting glass
- by what they can and what I can’t
- quite grasp: I see a hand, still mine, outstretched
- in an attempt to catch the stars that drop
- as hailstones in the grass. I see them pass;
- these sleepless fingers slip from solid into gas.
Malachi Black is the author of the poetry collection Storm Toward Morning (Copper Canyon Press, 2014), a Lannan Literary Selection and a finalist for the Poetry Society of America’s Norma Farber First Book Award. Black is assistant professor of English and Creative Writing at the University of San Diego.
Here's something you might be interested in.
“Insomnia & So On” and “Against the Glass”
“Insomnia & So On” and “Against the Glass”
Malachi Black
Insomnia & So On
- Fat bed, lick the black cat in my mouth
- each morning. Unfasten all the bones
- that make a head, and let me rest: unknown
- among the oboe-throated geese gone south
- to drop their down and sleep beside the outbound
- tides. Now there’s no nighttime I can own
- that isn’t anxious as a phone
- about to ring. Give me some doubt
- on loan; give me a way to get away
- from what I know. I pace until the sun
- is in my window. I lie down. I’m a coal:
- I smolder to a bloodshot glow. Each day
- I die down in my bed of snow, undone
- by my red mind and what it woke.
Against the Glass
- Rocking in my midnight robe, I am
- alive and in an eye again beside
- my kind insomniac, my phantom
- glass, companion and my only bride:
- this little window giving little shine
- to something. What I see I keep
- alive. I name the species, I define
- the lurch and glimmer, sweep and pry
- of eyes against the faint-reflecting glass
- by what they can and what I can’t
- quite grasp: I see a hand, still mine, outstretched
- in an attempt to catch the stars that drop
- as hailstones in the grass. I see them pass;
- these sleepless fingers slip from solid into gas.
Malachi Black is the author of the poetry collection Storm Toward Morning (Copper Canyon Press, 2014), a Lannan Literary Selection and a finalist for the Poetry Society of America’s Norma Farber First Book Award. Black is assistant professor of English and Creative Writing at the University of San Diego.
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