On the wall, 
two paint swatches. 

Salt float one, 
Couch nap the other. 

I don’t know what 
to call this 

aphysical space. 
Green room? Burrow? 

White light  
or Daddy god  

are popular models, 
regionally speaking. 

I am so afraid 
of dying 

incorrectly, 
I once said 

to a therapist, 
who recommended 

the Tibetan  
Book of the Dead, 

which didn’t help, 
its pages of rules 

& process charts. 
Nothing about genre 

is new. I change 
words but they all 

remind me of 
the business of living; 

the cooking, the washing, 
the folding. 

Everything I could 
imagine was here: 

the weird 
& singular scent 

of my baby’s  
fontanelle. 

Driveway lilacs 
at night. 

If I may, 
let’s do sleeping, 

but not 
too deep 

because boyfriend 
is on his way 

& when I get up 
I’ll start 

frying us  
neat square pillows

of onion for risotto. 
One splash 

for the pan 
& two for me— 

the steam will make  
his glasses glow.