Chyme

The first time you got up in the night
to shamble around your bedroom and knock over
expensive vases I didn't realize you
were not awake and you were never awake
when you kicked off the blanket and fumbled in my jewelery
box, feeling for a gold ring to drop in your mouth
(and I would hear it clink against
your teeth as your lolling tongue swirled
in your head) and, swallowing it, when you crawled
back into bed, your feet (cold from the bare
floor) touched my legs, which were a tactile
form of echolocation that helped you
to fumble up to my stomach, where you smothered
your face (or at least you tried) as you curled
your fingers around my hipbones and dug in with your fingernails.

That gold ring slid down your throat by way of
muscle contractions to rest in your stomach
in much the same fashion it would if
it were in the black of a stone well
and I never said a word.
I never told anyone about that well, that ring,
even you.

When I touched your face and said you were a sleep
walker, you strode away from the place you were
(the relatives watching your every action)
and you went outside to the in-ground pool, which
was frozen, and you tore back the cover
to stamp on the ice until it broke.
You cut your calf on the shards of ice and
you sat in the chill water, soothing your wounded leg
until someone brought you a glass of wine
(some relative brought you a glass of wine)
and you agreed to come inside and be bandaged.
But I really don't need to remind you of that.

As ether perfumed your veins (by way of your lungs)
and your eyes slid shut your hand went limp
and unconscious,I thought about how I could have
done anything to you that I wanted to do to you,
including reaching into your open throat
to root out the useless chyme and reclaim that gold
ring that, by then, was likely corroded and disfigured
beyond recognition or repair.
If only I had done it sooner.