At Peace

The round dome ceiling light in our bedroom,

like the harvest moon, set low—

just enough to keep the dark at bay.

The air purifier hums, filtering through the door

from our daughter’s room.

The humidifier stays neglected,

a good idea that didn’t catch on.

A big black rectangle on the facing wall—

the one I never wanted,

disrupting this sacred space.

It’s only ever been turned on once.

I feel like this grey-blue blanket,

the color of a whale,

plush but not heavy,

warmed by electricity,

keeping cold feet warm all night,

quietly—needed, wanted, useful.

A puppy’s donut bed, untouched on the hardwood floor.

Instead, he stretches next to me,

eyes closed, tail flaccid, body limp,

farts I don’t want to smell in our king bed.

He’s at peace.

I try to be.