Sleep Cycle
Connie Woodring
Sleep is like death. Time passes quickly. Eight hours seem like ten minutes.
Death is like sleep.
I am re-born after a billion years.
It is time to sleep.
I am lying in my bed, covers unruffled.
The clock says its familiar ten thirty.
The Buddha says everything is a dream.
I dream I am a butterfly landing on the scattered ashes of my husband.
My husband wakes and makes breakfast. He dies in his sleep the next evening.
He sleeps for a billion years and wakes at seven thirty, covers unruffled.
Everything is an illusion.
He kisses me and draws back in fear. I am cold as ice and do not respond. He scatters my ashes.
He dreams he is sleeping in our bed next to me.
We wake together.
Connie Woodring
Sleep is like death. Time passes quickly. Eight hours seem like ten minutes.
Death is like sleep.
I am re-born after a billion years.
It is time to sleep.
I am lying in my bed, covers unruffled.
The clock says its familiar ten thirty.
The Buddha says everything is a dream.
I dream I am a butterfly landing on the scattered ashes of my husband.
My husband wakes and makes breakfast. He dies in his sleep the next evening.
He sleeps for a billion years and wakes at seven thirty, covers unruffled.
Everything is an illusion.
He kisses me and draws back in fear. I am cold as ice and do not respond. He scatters my ashes.
He dreams he is sleeping in our bed next to me.
We wake together.
