Caroline talked in her sleep last night.

She told a story about a cat.

“The cat sits amongst the flowers,” she said.

“The cat is happy.” And that

was the end of the story.

She sometimes sings in her sleep, too.

Murmurings of lullabies,

sugared lips slightly parting

mouthing the words to forgotten songs.

As she sleeps, tells stories and sings,

I like to put my hand on her breast,

caress the curve as it hangs, deadweight.

I feather-touch her nipple, and smile. 

She feels good in bed;

I love the silent S of her shape.

She has that sleep smell, of

haunted flowers, a sweet musk, inviting.

Perhaps this is where the cat sits.