3 a. m. by Kim Hutchinson

In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart.

Ditty of First Desire
Federico Garcia Lorca

The clock glares, red-faced and angry.

I roll away in search of a new position, trying to feel my way to deep mystery, but dreams elude me.

When I was a child, I walked in my sleep. As an adult, I slept while awake. I walked, talked, ate, worked, unaware of my surroundings, unable or unwilling to see reality.

I tried different beds. They were too hard or too soft.

Alone, I always felt the pea.

Now I pray for the rolling crash of thunder, plead for a blessed sleep. I crave the joy of waking to the clean scent of a fresh world.

It’s not to be. Not today. Not tomorrow. Or next week.

I shift my pillow and picture a distant green morning.

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