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.