Poetry

Grand pas de deux
​by Monica Hart
Without waking, he
makes room for me.

I slide under his shoulder and hip as
he relaxes onto me. I
throw my leg
over his leg
wrestle with the blanket
and drape my arm across his chest,
right where it has landed
for twenty-two years.
Through all this wrestling
and rearranging
and settling in,
he does not wake.
He knows his partner.

His hand rests on my thigh
right where it has rested
for twenty-two years.

Without waking him,
I breathe him in
and out

and I can sleep again.
My son learned about voluntary and 
involuntary muscles in science class. We 
talked about how lucky we are that some 
decisions are out of our hands: our hearts beat
regardless of what we do.

For twenty-two years, this man and I have 
rearranged and wrestled and settled in.

We have always ended where we are now,
intertwined, warm hand on cool thigh,
cool hand on warm chest,
heating and chilling our shared space,
breathing each other’s air.

The dance takes two.
This particular dance takes twenty-two.