Jason Storms: Aubade If We Survive Charybdis

Here we sleep best as rain
slaps the skylights and windows

frame the imperfect city
darkness. I want to say that lust

gives issue to land, that home lies
over the mountain range of some

lover’s outline in the dead-channel
light. I run my fingers along

the rosary your spine makes
but I can’t name the words

each vertebrae forms. I can’t
translate that sentence into anything

other than wine-dark water
trying to reach the shore.

Please, tell me the truth: is there
no other way? Must our bodies be

only storm-tossed ships afraid to sail
through the whirlpool of this bed

before we can enter the harbor
and arrive safely at home?

All night, we’re tossed and turned
in the bedsheets’ terrible gales

and at sunrise, we come to.