Home >> Volume 7, Issue 01

Sunday Nap in the Rocking Chair

Millie Sweeny

The brush of your eyelashes
on my chest,
like the tickle of tiny ant-feet,
like dark fringes of a worn afghan,
like rays spreading from an overlarge sun
in a child’s drawing,
and I study you,

watch them blink,
watch them rise and fall
like butterflies’ wings—
fragile, curling, struggling lace—

and then,
as I think of who you were
(wrinkled, bundled, unknown)
and who you are
(laughter, adventure, curiosity)
and who you will be
(a man),

they still;
you sleep,
I pray.