New poem

From The Deep

Jolted from slumber
where you appear
baring traitorous teeth,
I find myself
beside your reality.
Your voice
repeats my name,
the syllables,
until I mumble assent.
Squeeze my hand, you say.

Did your mother teach you this?
Was this her version
of primal comfort,
learned from the one
who leaned over her
and said
I’m here now?

Perhaps the skewed sheets
are even now giving comfort
to the pillows
supporting our heads,
stroking their
dense thread counts,
letting them know
it’s safe to rest.