we know how it can all go wrong

I don't know why I get so cold at ten o'clock, but that's when I'm drawn, 

like some sort of nightbird, to our nest upstairs in the flannel sheets, 

once the color of pinot noir, now duller, patinaed by the silver 

of our skins. I need to pile on the blue blanket, the heavy woolen 

one from Ireland, the Broken Star quilt, before I stop 

shivering. Sometimes the house itself quivers in the wind.
Then you come up, and we arrange ourselves like a nest 

of measuring cups. Some of our friends now sleep alone, half 

the set missing. I've told you you're not allowed to die first;
I don't do numbers checkbook, taxes, bills. My breasts 

press into your back; my hand with the numb fingers stretches 

over your heart. How lucky we are to have found each other; 

what if I hadn't gone to the party that night? The second time 

for both of us; we know how it can all go wrong. Even 

when I can't sleep, I listen to the hoots and calls 

of your breathing, which both keeps me awake 

and will be the first thing I'll miss when all the nights 

are silent. We know there'll be an afterwards; 

we're not that young anymore. I turn, and turn again, 

the way a dog circles before he lies down. And though 

we can't see them, the stars twirl overhead, each one nested 

in the place in space it's supposed to call home.

 

[Barbara Crooker {1945- }, 'Owl Hour', from Fire on Her Tongue: An Anthology of Contemporary Women’s Poetry]