I sleep and dream of snakes.
I wake with a spring coiled
inside me somewhere,
a pain buried
deep in my chest.
My thighs are hard and tight
as if made of rope.
But it’s Sunday morning.
There’s still hope.
“Let’s spend this Sunday
morning in bed,” I say,
hopefully.
“Okay,” he smiles. “I’ll have
bacon and eggs,” he says,
kissing me, opening his paper
to the sports page.
