Sleep Bowl

The light bowl

of your voice

Sounds across the surface of my sleep

bit by bit coming to it

White wings brushing

against the eardrum

You were named in me thirteen years ago

by my mother rust-clad at the promise river

The dozen different versions of me

being carried on drafts away

Sleep little sweat-lodge, spirit house,

imaginary boy, petaled to my side, breathing

Saying his father’s name

across the bowl of my sleep