Uncertainty

Jennifer McClellan

In your twin bed, I imagine

my voice is the vibration that turns

the honeybee away from your skin.

 

I’m certain we won’t

make it to the other side of this

the same as we began.

Forever altered already, by permanent

angel scratches on my tummy

and orange prescription bottles

with your name on the labels.

 

My eyes are open, stone tired as a statue’s,

but everything around me moves at full tilt

like spilled marbles rolling downhill,

with an unstoppable urgency.

 

I try to keep my mouth in sync with my mind

as I read a wizarding story and imagine my voice

is fine sand flowing between your busy hands.

Your fingers comb through the sandbox

for what, I’m not sure is there to begin with.

You stretch and twist, but that doesn’t help

tame the restless roar coursing through

your body, so I bookmark our page.

 

Sometimes it makes me tremble

knowing I have just one chance with you,

just one chance to be your sculptor.

The dim glow of your bunny nightlight

isn’t good enough to offer me any clarity.

I raise my hand to wipe a tear, but conceal

my movement as a scratch at an itch.

 

A shadow on the ceiling jumps out at you.

It’s just your desk chair, I say and point

to the dream catcher above your bed,

It will catch all the bad dreams anyway.

You nestle close and ask me to hug you forever.

I smell the scent of watermelon shampoo in your hair

and peppermint, as your breathing starts gentle

waves to wash away, reset, return

everything to its right place,

so I can try again tomorrow

with a smaller knot in my throat.