Issue Forty-Two - Summer 2023

What Your Sleep Tastes Like

By T. Dallas Saylor

On the couch you slumped over
into my shoulder, your lips parted.

When you slumped over the couch
& dropped your half-eaten scone,
your parted lips dripped crumbs into my shoulder.

As you crumbled into the couch
the rest of your half-eaten scone,
I wondered what your sleep tastes like
as your parted lips pressed my shoulder.

I guess tonight you’re sleeping over,
my body going to scone crumbles
as I think what your sleep must taste like,
cranberries & walnuts, chamomile tea
on your parted lips pressed into my shoulder

that’s slumped across the couch,
crumbling my scone body into
whatever your sleep tastes like,
cranberries & walnuts, chamomile tea,
& I find my arms around you, pulling
your parted lips into my shoulder,

our bodies slumping down into the couch,
your chest weighing against mine like sweet stone
steeping into whatever your sleep tastes like,
a forest of nuts & berries, chamomile,
as I find my arms around you, pulling
your mussed hair against my nose,
your parted lips from shoulder to collarbone, still

unbelieving we’ve slumped into the couch
where we’d been dropping scone crumbs before
I started daydreaming what your sleep tastes like,
back in the hours of cranberries, walnuts, chamomile,
simpler times before my arms decided to pull
your mussed hair against my nose,
my heartbeat so loud I fear I’ll wake
your parted lips pressed into my collarbone,

& when your body turns on the couch, on mine,
your fingers finding scone crumbs in the small of my back,
you show my mouth what your sleep tastes like,
your cranberries & walnuts, chamomile tea,
as I find your arms around me, tugging at
my hair, your nose against my nose,
my heartbeat so loud I’m sure you’ll feel it,
I want you to feel it & not stop there
with your parted lips pressed into my collarbone

then turning down, couching into my chest
like I’m your scone going to pieces & hoping
only that your sleep tastes like me,
that I’m your nut berry, your chamomile,
as your arms find me, my fingers tugging at
your mussed hair, your nose grazing fabric, skin,
my heartbeat so loud I fear I’ll wake the whole
house but don’t stop there, I want you to find
every secret hope & urge I’ve hidden
in bone, feel every shudder under your parted lips.

After Chris Watkins

Copyright 2023 Saylor

T. Dallas Saylor is a PhD candidate at Florida State University and holds an MFA from the University of Houston. His work meditates on the body, especially gender and sexuality, against physical, spiritual, and digital landscapes. He currently lives in Denver, CO. He is on Twitter: @dallas_saylor.

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