Anne Holub
​Image by David Cohen on Pixabay                                                                                     
Anne Holub's poetry has been featured on Chicago Public Radio and in The Doubleback Review, The Mississippi Review, The Asheville Poetry Review, Phoebe, and The Beacon Street Review (now Redivider), among other publications, and in the anthology Bright Bones: Contemporary Montana Writing, (Open Country Press). She received a MFA from the University of Montana and a MA from Hollins University. Originally from Charlottesville, Virginia, she now lives and writes in Montana with her husband Dan, their two dogs Merle and Rosie, and a sourdough starter named Larry (RIP) Rhonda.
Insomnia


        I.

the dark in which I know
your body and your reaching arm
the dark of what was said
into the dim frame of room – our clothes
at the foot of the bed now a lingering pressure
between our feet, and the streetlight left
knocking at the pull-shade, a swinging 
shaft of stained light too sure to be the sun,
searing across the wall a slim diagonal –
as if your voice could be so light
my back, so burned that I rub against the sheet,
try to wear my skin and sweep the char away
to confuse my nerves with friction, steady,
pin down through the night and remember
the low sounds making their slow descent



II.
                                     Are you awake, I have to ask who will have me 
                                     now I’ve given away my plans for nights deep 
                                     with breaths, how could you forgive how I fill 
                                     each hour pretending sleep, all the time spent 
                                     half-shut and fluttering, perhaps too drawn to the 
                                     sunrise, beating there against the window or 
                                     seeking the bright in light bulbs, holding 
                                     everything until it burns.



 III.


Don’t think the scraping rain remembers 
earlier, at twilight, the dim ridge above the trail
and the dog, vibrant, flushing the impossibly round birds 
who always cry out like something sharp stuck
in the gullet – don’t worry about the sounds 
that dry skin scrapes along your back, the hair’s
sharp memory, a mistake you laugh through every time you think
about what you could have done and 
your hands over your mouth – as if speaking
of it were only the beginning of your fears.


IV. 


                              This is not a proper way. These fists cannot find 
                              much comfort when clenched. They stiffen into 
                              flowers, grow brittle against the skin, behind the
                              tongue, the throat. With compulsion, and some 
                              sense of numbers, I roll a lolling ankle and warm 
                              the sheets with elliptical friction. But this is not the 
                              way to burn through dawn. There is nothing to be 
                              afraid of, some might tell you, then point out the 
                              bears in the sky. The clouds have moved in and I 
                              cannot count the stars for seeing.


V.


before me there was still       doubt
does it burn               does it leave a mark
there is still the proof
what degree of          whole is enough
and empty                we empty out
behind our eyes            mouths open
from the black             say
the stars are broken they             snap
curling against fire      held in our laps
like strands of hair          say
some nights are gladly spent 





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