POETRY | Moriel Rothman-Zecher Did I Ever Tell You

POETRY

DID I EVER TELL YOU

By Moriel Rothman-Zecher

She squirms next to me on the giant mattress we’ve laid down on the floor. We’re worried she’ll pee on it, but we’re almost at our wits’ end with this sleep thing. It feels as though

I’ve been lying here saying “stop squirming” & “close your eyes” & “laila tov I love you” for the last six years which of course can’t be exactly precise, given that she’s two, but god

damn I am anxious to go eat something or watch Netflix, but she’ll howl if I leave now so I try the Vipassana meditation I practiced for a few months at 23; I want to escape this

room & I love this kid so much I want to live until she’s a great-grandparent. The boredom of this night makes me greedy for more life. Finally she slips off into sleep & the furrow

of her brow, gremlin, dissident, marvel, relaxes & of course I don’t kiss her forehead, I do not risk waking her & starting the cycle over, instead I roll over & hope to Buddha that my knees don’t

crack with what they call crispus, silly little air bubbles that come from the running I do to stay congenial. They do crack, one, then the other, but she doesn’t wake, & I walk on the planks

which I know to creak least, & open the door at a practiced pace. I prepare a cheese sandwich, pluck at the iPad for a bit, & as I’m doing this I begin to grow these weird antlers on my head,

all mossy & fungal, I realize they are the antlers of prophecy, here to say I won’t live to see my kid as a great-grandparent, careful not to poke my wife I crawl into bed, it’s her night off, she’s fine.