It is two it is three it is four in the morning
They are sleeping think of them sleeping.
It is two it is three it is four in the morning
All in their beds think of them, think of them sleeping
The gray-haired mothers are sleeping
Out walking, walking home, you are still out walking
Like houses viewed from incoming airplanes – tiny and so many –
The gray-haired mothers are sleeping
You have this thought, it comes to you out of night, out of the hour on your watch,
out of the motion of your feet, out of the emptied sidewalk
An organization of nerves
you think of them, think of them sleeping
Warm in warm rooms under covers to their chins
they are sleeping, the gray-haired mothers are sleeping
Their eyelids are shut their faces are washed their bangs are bobby-pinned
In nightgowns they pull from boxes at Christmas
In nightgowns chosen from department store sales racks
(and the clicking sound of hangers on sale racks.)
You think of them, think of them sleeping
It is 1:56 it is 2:28 it is 3:07 exactly in the morning
In big houses in small houses in dream houses in apartments
In houses where the furniture will no longer be rearranged
They are sleeping the gray-haired mothers are sleeping
In single beds in double beds in queen and king sized beds
In beds that they remake each morning
On couches in hospital beds in beds they’ve owned for twenty years
they are sleeping
Like dolls inside dollhouses as little girls they played with dolls
Their eyelids are shut they are sleeping
Their husbands are snoring
Next to them snoring down the hall behind closed doors
snoring in another city snoring
On the hall clocks on the kitchen clocks
on the clocks on their nightstands large in red numbers silent
on the watches taken off and placed on the nightstands
on the special occasion watch in the jewelry box
on the inherited clock in a small house’s nicest room
on the microwave clock visible from the table
where the husband in a white undershirt smokes cigarettes and laughs to himself
remembering football
In the wooden chair he always sits in he can hardly walk
It is two it is four it is three in the morning
Think of their glasses on nightstands they are folded
Think of their books on nightstands they are quiet and shut
Think of their phones they are quiet unringing
We think of them we think of them we think of them
They come to us, they whirl as loose nightgowns
in the night air above us it is like a Chagall
Night after night counting street signs
Night after night counting street signs
Hands in my pockets hands clutching backpack straps hands frightened into fists
the sound of my feet the exact speed I am walking
From pool of streetlight to pool of streetlight
I think of them sleeping, I think of them sleeping.
Light-switches smudged from much touching are off
Electric bulbs in their sockets are cool to the touch
Only the refrigerator is running
a hum somewhere she is not hearing
And the room I visualize is mine
And the room you visualize is yours personal
And you wonder, where has it gone
That bed down the hall behind the door with the loose glass knob
That bed twice the size of yours containing all those pillows one pillow for you
And you wonder where has she gone
She would put her palm on your forehead
Surely it has only shifted forms
Surely she is somewhere
Down some figurative hall behind some figurative door behind some figurative glass knob
They are sleeping, they are sleeping, they are sleeping,
Their breathing is soft it is hard to hear as rain
is to see out a window at night when it’s mid-air
It is one it is two it is three in the morning
They don’t know one another they are one another
Would your mother and my mother be friends?
They would all be friends they are alike as taxis
they want the phone to ring on Sunday and it be their child,
their child who is always their child,
Inside them their plans for tomorrow are sleeping
Inside them their love for their children is sleeping
Inside them the names of so many they know are sleeping
Their names are Jan and Joanne and Marcy-Ann and Mary Jo
Their names are Margaret and Harriet and Nancy.
Their names are Kathy and Janet and Diana and Debbie
Names they’ve had their lives entire.
Someone has died someone will die
They will ring doorbells holding food in casserole dishes
Someone has died someone will die
Prayer cards will be pressed by magnets to refrigerators
(And the unchanging magnets on their refrigerators)
Someone has died someone will die
They will take their husbands to doctors
They will sit in waiting rooms patient and waiting
They will sit in waiting rooms with ferns and read magazines
They will write checks. They will wait they will rise they will sleep.
they are sleeping, the gray-haired mothers are sleeping
they are breathing
Their children have left them, it is sad but not like it was
On such occasions we say that is life
Their children have left and live in cities and are busy they know that
Someone is dying and someone will die.
On such occasions we say that is life
Their children have left and call, when they call, on Sundays
On their nightstands there are lamps
they can turn on in the dark like blind women feeling with their fingers
On their nightstands there are rosary beads
and in a frame leaning back in some photo
children who will always be children because always they are mothers,
children who have left and call, when they call, on Sundays
It is one it is two it is three in the morning
Think of them sleeping. Think of their sleep.
This poem first appeared in the journal Supermachine. We are reprinting it here with the permission of the author. You can also hear Matthew Yeager reading the poem here.
