The boys return to our bed,
with a splay of long limbs
and crumpled moon pages.
We are dark loaves, feigning sleep
like nothing has happened:
trotting them to the bathroom
to pee on the floor, or just
breathing in their malty smell.
I'm still a wonder, when they pinch
my cells and toss up
a rain of skin and salt,
when I show my tongue smooth as chalk
and my fingerprints washed away.
I'm a superhero
afloat in simple black air,
shadow-cut by car beams.
I'm still awake with nothing
to weigh me down, so you help them
up onto me. Small animals,
they creep deliciously
over my chest, drunk and dreamy,
lungs full. They judder into sleep.
Marbling with fresh veins,
my body sops them up.