The buzz of your beard trimmer before we go to bed is
the closest I come to cricket song.
The kind that kept me up at night when
at eleven and twelve and thirteen years old
I didn’t dream of someday sharing my bed with
an (extra)ordinary man, but an elf.
We read together, stealing half hours from sleep
as I once bribed my mother, promising
just one more chapter before lights out.
This is a chapter in our own lives coming to a close:
your breath white noise I follow soundlessly to sleep;
our baby squirming in my belly between us
when we try to make love,
before us in every future we might occupy.
Until your whiskers shake out sparse and gray, and
I haven’t the bone strength to make babies anymore.