Insomnia

Often I wake to the sound
of his pacing downstairs, stalking 

sleep from room to room, water running
in a glass, dishes clinking in the sink.

Back when I smoked, I'd rise too,
any excuse to glow in the dark.

Late summer nights, I'd kick 
my legs over his, nude

beneath my night shirt, letting the tide
of his voice wash over me.

Specters billowed from my cigarette 
out the open window, a generously

animate moonlit float 
carrying off our words as it drifted.

These days, hitched, child-bound, 
strapped for time, my sleep 

is a noun that needs protecting.
I pull the covers close

while he stirs his 3 AM polenta,
spare my feet the sand 

on the floor, the memory 
of salt in the air.