Jenne’ Andrews: A Theory of Insomnia

Vox Populi


Perhaps I am not sleeping

Because I am meant

To become a poem.


Perhaps the stanzas of my hands,

how they have become dry and pale,

branching in a thicket of thin bones,

write themselves into time

like quicksilver

with their elemental serifs–,

those dark travelers hungry

for comprehension

toiling uphill in lunar sand.


My body lags

with the gravity of exhaustion.

Yet the mind

incandescent with wakefulness

petitions the lark

to leave her solitude.


How this brain

wants to shut against light

like an oyster

around an immanent pearl.


And how heavy my wrists

although I carry nothing.




The lines in a book of sonnets

left in the window for the rain

wash away.

I leave the bed

where I was,

a stain of shadows.


Day languishes toward twilight;

I am a small, foraging

bird in chaff, whittled down


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