On sedatives
I am more lovable
Says my husband
My speech becomes a mistladen terrain
The words emerge tinctured with sleep
They rise from the still coves of dreams
In unhurried flight like herons . . .
And my ragdoll limbs adjust better
To his versatile lust . . . he would if he could
Sing lullabies to his wife’s sleeping soul
Sweet lullabies to thicken its swoon
On sedatives
I grow more lovable
Says my husband.