Salvatore Difalco

All this time you’ve had your eyes wide open.
I don’t think I’ve seen you blink once.
And the moon is blazing, the full moon.

Are you sleeping with your eyes open?
In the dark here, I don’t know what
to think. Don’t think I want to be in this bedroom.

Just a moment ago I heard something
in the living room. You didn’t flinch. I’m scared.
I heard a bottle fall and roll. Not break, roll.

Sometimes when you’re sleeping, snoring
like a bull, I want to hold a pillow over your mouth.
Not to kill you, just to stop you from breathing.

Now I don’t know whether you’re sleeping
with your eyes open or playing with me.
Is someone in the living room? I need to pee.

Now you stand. You’re wearing green pajamas—
cotton ones my mother gifted you at Christmas— 
and slowly move out of the bedroom.

I hear shuffling and then voices. Who’s there
with you? What are you talking about at this time?
I begin to shake. My teeth chatter. I’m afraid.

Time passes, I don’t know. Your side of the bed
is cold. Where have you gone? You and the other
are quiet now. I close my eyes with dread.

When I open them you are lying there, staring
at the ceiling. Who was that? I ask. You say nothing
and stare. When I nudge you, you quietly cuss.

Maybe it’s me, maybe I’ve been asleep all this time.
I get up to shut the blinds. I am here. I’m fine.
But why is the moon so close to me, so close to us?

Salvatore Difalco

Salvatore Difalco is a Sicilian Canadian poet currently residing in Toronto.