Twitch

You twitch in your sleep.

At first, your face is peaceful,
a swell of silence, a blank lullaby,
waiting, twiddling its thumbs for lyrics
written by Queen Mab’s calligraphy.

Instead, the honest Puck
Sneaks up with dustings of tripped
Up fairy musk, curling up
Your nose with its more or less distasteful
Scent.

Like an old dog twitching at a
Bad dream, you shoo away Hermia’s
Irksome trouble, or at least, you try.

It frightens me a little, the way
Your body stutters, as if the
Weird Sisters are casting Macbeth’s
Prophecies, and nights of
Invisible blood.

If I could, I would brush away
The spider beds, inked with dew and anxieties
From your head.


I love to see the lullaby when you sleep.