By Ona Gritz

He's made his way into our bed again,
one small elbow dangerously close to my eye.
And though I barely fit the sliver of middle
you two back sleepers leave me,
I let him stay, turning sometimes
toward his jutting unpredictable angles,
sometimes toward the sweat-strong skin
beneath your raised arm.
Crushed between your sleep and his
I realize what I feel is sated.
For here in the brightening dark,
everything I breathe and feel against my skin
weights me to the fragrant tangle of this bed,
the fragrant tangle of this lucky life.

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