In Our Room at Pedregal

Tamed by Miltown, we lie on Mother’s bed;
the rising sun in war paint dyes us red
—Robert Lowell, "Man and Wife"

Restless in the night, I could not sleep.
Your release had come too fast for mine
to keep a matching pace and, breathless,
I was left abandoned, incomplete.

While you slumbered, with my hands I tried
to rekindle something of the heat
that so briefly flared in our bed's grate.
But my fingertips, too dull and slow

for anything like love, merely rubbed
the way one would massage a child's ache—
as anesthetic, in no way lust.

Your breathing, regular as the surf
beyond our window, did not relax
nor comfort. So. Ambien, my sweet.