The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Mapping the Borderlands by Barbara Sabol

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In the Wound of Night

                —after Constantin Brâncuşi’s sculpture, Sleeping Muse

I envy her perfection. More than beauty, her tranquility,
like a level’s bubble, centered, even in this busy, brightly lit
gallery. A dream blooms inside the elegant head, at rest
on a pedestal. Cast in white marble, an ageless patina smooths
brow and cheek. The air around her shapes itself into clean,
linear features—an abstraction of woman, one you might know
at midnight; an evocation in the morning.

moon flower—
the night garden
fragrant with light

Tonight, in my ink dark bedroom, I imagine her crescent cheek
cradled on the pillow next to mine. Her mouth is inscrutable.
The marble softens at the Cupid’s bow, allowing only the slightest
parting of her lips. I taste her cool breath as she descends into the deep
end of sleep; into a pool of lassitude.

A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. Her dreams must be
sweet, and so magically elsewhere. Lapis skies swirl with gold stars.
Exotic forests with sated tigers. I, too, close my eyes but my dreams
tousle out in the hall of my childhood home where people move
through dim rooms. There, no one has ever died. Everything
and nothing changed.

the ceiling fan’s
rhythmic pulse—
missyou missyou missyou

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