Dark and thick and heavy and damp
whirring of the box fan in the window
sucks in the oddly chopped sounds of crickets chirping
I toss on my mattress
the body next to me emits a grunt or groan or moan
or some such other "sleep noise" and jerks a leg
I think of murder
Of the butcher knife and his bare back
but then I think perhaps it should be me
but then there are the children... who would love them like I do?
In the morning
he asks me
"Did you place your hand on my back? Or did I dream that?"