19th century miniature. Photo from The Mark Twain House & Museum, 2026.
Blessed midnight mother,
your hands stroke soft and tender as you pull forth
the dark satin cover of night,
your touch knits a crease in her brow, and
a yawn from her jaw
arms chase you up, reaching and seeking,
your presence is etched in the lick of gloam
it floods past the fine sheen of drape
until all is basking in you
the feeling absorbs like wine over cloth,
words melting beneath drooping corneas
sleep sought,
and imprinted under
soft exhalation.