Sailing Alone Across the Atlantic

Myra rises after midnight
clutching moonlight with her paws.
Her pointed muzzle grins. She leaps
the length of the bed and bullies
the other cats to the floor. Tiny

as a kitten, kinetic
as a kitten, she burrows
through the dark to the kitchen
to shriek for a snack. I tunnel
deeper into sleep, but you rise

in a huff of bedclothes and stagger
down the hall. I dream of food:
pizza, cheeseburgers, onion rings.
Toxic meals that even in sleep
clog my arteries. You rouse me

by tumbling so heavily back
to bed the broken old mattress
sighs and pops another spring.
I dream of shopping for shoes
and belts and a plush suede vest

I’d never wear in waking life.
We’re sinking further into debt
than even into this sorry bed.
But Myra prances back to cuddle
between us, her big ears flapping

like batwings. She loves this bed,
her empire. I dream of sailing
alone across the Atlantic.
The sails, shaped like Myra’s ears,
whisper full of wind the color

of Carrara marble. The ocean
exhales motley grays and greens.
My boat’s slow. I abandon it
and walk the last thousand miles
on water smooth as agate. Myra

snores her little old lady snore
and dawn breaks like the sight of land—
Spain or maybe France brimming
at the edge of sleep where even
the bravest travelers wash ashore.