The Whims of Sleep by Elizabeth Morse

Sleep no longer loves me.
The phone buzzes once, dialing lights
That streak across the ceiling. I sit up in bed,
Reading ice-cube promises in a crystal glass.
Star and moon cookies with white frosting
And tiny silver dots recline in a plate.
I think of the red dress I used to wear to parties,
Now that I know not to flirt with Jose Cuervo
Or Jack Daniels.

I close the door and wait, shoes lost, bandage
On my toe. Will I lift the phone, listening
Carefully to make sure the connection is true?
Shadows shift. Insomnia builds character,
But what kind? The crystal glass trembles,
Catching wind only for a moment, as the white
Curtain lifts in the dark. Dots of light gather,
As half my forehead, my cheek, my right eye,
Ache with waiting.