I need to go to sleep.
I’ve got things to do tomorrow,
Things. Always things.
I have a tiny baby to hold and
prayer cards to laminate for
a grieving family and a
piano lesson to plan for an
eight year old boy whose fearless
except for his pretend migraines.
I need to learn those minor melodies
that drift through the centuries
and find only a handful of modern ears.
I must sleep so I can commit them
to revel in the circles and lustful lilts
of the language,
to research their composers
and worship them like gods.
I need to sleep, but I am
alone in a raised ranch
imagining what life would be like
if I were famous,
as if celebrities are any more valuable
than seven pound, six ounce Caleb
or eighty year old Robert Macavoy and
his grieving family
or Lucas who is afraid of all the right things.
At least my gods are flawed like me
I don’t think any greater ones would have me.
more by NOELLE CURRIE
photograph by Paolo Imbag
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