Insomnia: Triptych
You won’t read it on the prescription label, but to aid the small half-moon
Ambien tablet (cut with a grapefruit knife), my father reads to my mother.
The Ambien’s a Hail Mary, something she tried only after a dozen other
remedies, & is now something she cannot live without. She remembers
remedies, & is now something she cannot live without. She remembers
her mother haunting the house at night in her nightgown, walking room to room,
glass of port in hand. Looking out of each window. Stumbling against doorframes,
glass of port in hand. Looking out of each window. Stumbling against doorframes,
couch, kitchen table, a little off-balance. Something in the blood, this shine
of sleeplessness in us. The Ambien leaves her unsteady too, a little fuzzy.
of sleeplessness in us. The Ambien leaves her unsteady too, a little fuzzy.
