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Wish

By Rebecca Aronson

I want to lie down like a tiny birch canoe,
sewn with red thread, afloat in the street
in the rushing aftermath

of a good spring rain. To curl in the y of a desert willow
at sundown when its pink blossoms
are a thousand distant lanterns strung

among the branches. At night
I prop my sleeping body like a shield.
I fly myself like a volley of arrows

toward the glowing eye of sleep’s center.
I circle its edges, closing in. I call sleep’s name
into closets and empty drawers and listen for its echo.

I want to lay my body into the palm
of my love’s hand and diminish there,
a chip of ice. I want sleep to vanish me

in its secret chamber, its magician’s hat,
where I’ll lie curled in the dark
like an unhatched bird, dreaming as my egg tooth sharpens.

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